


Maiden Name

by callmejude



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1930s, Angst, Crossdressing, Dom/sub Undertones, Feminization, Gender Roles, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mommy Issues, Mother Complex, Nipple Play, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6910198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the death of his mother, Steve suffers an emotional breakdown. Bucky only means to help, but it's possible he's just making things worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s almost midnight when Bucky gets the call to come down to the station. He hasn’t heard from Steve in the past two days, which isn’t too alarming, but he was starting to edge into the side of nervous. He’d been prepared to give it another day before showing up at Steve’s place. He feels guilty now for not doing it sooner.

“Does his mother know?” Bucky asks as he shuffles as quickly as he can into his pants. Sarah has been ill and probably can’t handle news of her son sitting around in jail right now. “Is that how you knew to call me?”

“Mr. Rogers only provided this number, Mr. Barnes,” the man tells him flatly, “As he’s not a minor, we didn’t require contact of his family.”

Bucky frowns. “I’m on my way,” he says nervously.

Steve looks like hell when Bucky picks him up from the police station. His right eye is dark and swollen and his lip is still bleeding. He’s moving like his whole body is sore, like he’s been thrown into a wall. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Bucky asks, concern sounding more like anger than he means it to.

Steve shrugs. He’s not looking Bucky in the eye, and Bucky throws his arm around him to lead him out of the station. 

“What’re you gonna tell your ma?” he asks. 

Steve is silent, and Bucky sighs. “You can’t keep doing this when she needs —"

Steve stops walking abruptly, and Bucky freezes. 

“Steve?”

“I have to pay you back,” Steve tells him. He sounds choked, as if he’s about to cry. Bucky hasn’t seen him cry since they were children, and his spine goes ramrod straight. 

“Don’t worry about it, Steve —"

“How much?” he asks, his voice bordering on hysterical, reaching in his pockets as if he’d have it in change. Bucky waves him off, kneeling down to look Steve in the eye. Steve looks away from him, and Bucky’s chest goes tight.

“Steve, it doesn’t matter. What’s—what’s wrong?”

“I can’t let you pay for all that,” Steve says, his voice raising. “It’s my fault, I have to—I have to pay you back.” 

Bucky grabs his shoulders to force eye contact, his stomach bottoming out when he sees the glint of tear tracks down Steve’s face. 

“It’s my fault,” Steve says again, the gasp of tears just under his words. “Tell me how much. I have to pay you back.”

“No, Steve,” Bucky says firmly, “C’mon. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t, Bucky,” Steve says suddenly, his voice exploding out of him so much louder than he should be capable. Bucky jolts back, and Steve shakes his head. “I can’t, I have to pay you back, tell me, please —"

Tears are flowing freely now, and Bucky wraps an arm around him. 

“Okay,” he says quickly, pushing Steve out of the cold, into a mostly-empty train station. They can’t afford to take the train, especially not after spending ten bucks to keep Steve from spending the night in a holding cell, but they need a few minutes before walking any further.

“Okay, Steve. Talk to me.” Steve shakes his head, and Bucky frowns. “C’mon, Stevie,” he whispers, reaching up to Steve’s face to wipe his tears away. The touch causes the wall in Steve to crumble like dust, and he collapses, Bucky catching him against his chest.

“Steve —" Bucky’s heart clenches, and Steve is suddenly sobbing out loud, curling tightly into Bucky’s chest. Bucky can feel tears soaking through his shirt as he stands stricken, holding Steve close to him. He realizes what’s wrong a moment before Steve manages to speak.

“She’s gone,” Steve chokes out against Bucky’s collar, “It—I was sleeping, and she—I didn’t —"

“Oh, Steve,” Bucky says gently, his hands in Steve’s hair, “Steve… Steve, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Steve is shaking, and Bucky wonders if he’s let himself cry at all since it happened. “You’re gonna come stay with me tonight, okay?”

Steve shakes his head, but Bucky wraps an arm around his back and pulls him outside again. 

“Yeah,” he says understandingly, “C’mon.”

Steve leans heavily into Bucky as they walk back to his apartment, and lets Bucky practically carry him up the stairs of the walk-up. He sits Steve on the couch and fixes him some hot tea, wrapping him in a blanket before sitting next to him on the sofa.

“I need to get you the money,” Steve tells his steaming mug, his voice dragging, dull.

“Steve, if you try and pay me back for this I will throw it in the fireplace,” Bucky says sharply. 

Steve lets out a shaky breath, almost like a laugh if he hadn’t just been crying. 

“What were you doing?” Bucky asks finally.

Steve shakes his head. “I got in a fight.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says with a scoff, “I caught that much. What over?”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re telling me what got you into trouble, is what you’re doing,” he says forcefully, and Steve shakes his head, unnaturally insistent. He never keeps things from Bucky like this. “Steve, I— why aren’t you telling me? What did you do?” 

He can’t imagine Steve breaking the law, not outside of getting roughed up for the right cause. If Steve won’t tell him, that means he’s ashamed. He’s never known Steve to be ashamed of anything. There’s a tendril of fear curling in Bucky’s stomach. He reaches up and runs his fingers through Steve’s hair. 

“Stevie…” 

Steve rips away from the touch as if he’s been burned.

“I don’t have anything anymore,” he murmurs, curling into himself. “I don’t have—I don’t…” 

Bucky shakes his head. “That’s not true, Steve. You’ve got me, remember? You’ve always got me.” He drops in front of Steve on the floor, forcing their eyes to meet. “I’m not going anywhere, Stevie. No matter what. You’ve always got me.” 

Steve is staring blankly at a spot just past Bucky’s shoulder.

“Steve?”

“You mean it?” his voice is flat, quiet. He doesn’t sound present. Bucky nods anxiously, but he’s not sure what Steve is asking. 

“I’ve got you?” Steve specifies, his eyes skating slowly over Bucky’s face. “No matter what?”

Bucky nods furiously. “Of course,” he says quickly, “Steve, always. What’d you do?”

Steve’s face twists painfully. “No. No, you’d hate me.” 

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Stevie, you’re scaring me,” he says, grabbing his shoulder again, “Tell me how you got in a fight, okay?”

“She died on Tuesday,” Steve says instead, and Bucky flinches. That means the whole two days Bucky hasn’t had contact with him, he’s been alone. “She died on Tuesday, and I—I didn’t feel _anything._ ”

“Steve —"

“Nothing,” Steve talks over him. He certainly feels something now, his voice hysterical, tears soaking his face. Bucky doesn’t know what to do. He wants to hold him. Steve’s mouth is still running, hands flailing in time with his words. “I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t scared, I wasn’t relieved or lonely or tired. I didn’t feel anything.”

“Steve, that’s okay. You—you were just —"

“ _It wasn’t okay,_ ” Steve snaps at him, and Bucky falls silent. “I just wanted —"

“You… you got in a fight because you wanted to feel something,” Bucky offers lamely. “That’s understandable.”

Steve is shaking his head before the words are even finished leaving Bucky’s mouth. He laughs humorlessly. “I got in a fight—because I got caught.”

It feels like lead in Bucky’s chest. “Caught doing what, Steve?”

“I didn’t—I didn’t want you to find out,” Steve says helplessly. “Thought you’d think it was sick. It was just going to be a few times. I was —"

The lead in Bucky’s chest gets heavier, weighing down his lungs. He can’t breathe. “Steve,” his voice is too quiet, and Steve reacts to it like a slap. “Tell me. Please.”

“I _can’t_.” Steve looks back down at his tea. “I spent… I shouldn’t have spent…”

Bucky frowns. He can barely understand what Steve is saying as it is, and now the words aren’t making enough sense. “Are you in trouble? Do you need money?”

“ _No,_ ” he says suddenly, “No, I can’t, I just. I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have… now how am I gonna get her flowers? I want her to have flowers, Bucky,” he says timidly, “She deserves flowers.”

“She does,” Bucky agrees earnestly, “We’ll get her flowers. I’ve been getting good pay on the docks, okay? I can get her flowers.” It’s only a little white lie. He can scrape the money together for Steve. He’ll just have to skip a few meals the next week. 

Steve shakes his head again, and Bucky’s getting tired of it, grabbing his face to hold him still. 

“Stop telling me no,” he says firmly. “I loved—she was my family, too.”

Steve stares at him for a moment before nodding.

“What’re you doing that’s getting you into trouble, Steve? I know you, you don’t want to do it if it’s getting you in trouble.”

“I do,” Steve says distantly, and Bucky’s brow furrows. “I like doing it. It feels good.” 

Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t sound like Steve. Good, honest, perfect Steve. Whoever he’s doing this for has taken him and torn him apart and put him back together all wrong.

Steve’s eyes are clouded. He looks like he’s falling asleep in Bucky’s grip. “Steve, you’re exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”

Steve jolts away from Bucky’s hands, suddenly awake and panicked. “ _No_ ,” he says sharply, and Bucky drops his hands. “No, no. She was okay and then I fell asleep. I woke up and she was gone. No. I can’t. No.”

“Are—are you saying you haven’t slept in _two days?_ ”

“Don’t make me,” Steve answers desperately, “Please, don’t make me sleep. I can’t—I _can’t_.” Bucky moves to sit next to Steve on the couch, pulling him into his lap.

“I have to, you’ll kill yourself if you keep going like this.” Steve tries to squirm away from him, but Bucky only holds him tighter. “You’re staying with me,” Bucky says firmly, and Steve goes resignedly limp. “We’ll pool our money for a nice funeral and everything will be okay. I’m gonna take care of you, pal.”

“I gotta get the money to pay you back,” Steve says quietly. Bucky’s holding him close and warm, making it harder to fight of exhaustion. “Maybe I can—charge for it. Like they do.”

Bucky shakes his head, but Steve’s slipping so fast, he grabs the only opportunity he has. “Charge for what?” he asks calmly, “Like who?”

“The boys at the St. George,” he says sleepily.

Bucky’s blood runs cold. “The St. George? That hotel on Henry Street?” 

Steve’s dropping off, and part of Bucky wants to let him sleep, but he can’t, not now. What is Steve even doing loitering around that sleezy hotel anyway? 

“Steve,” he says, jostling him slightly until Steve’s eyes slide back open. “What’re you doing at St. George?”

“I don’t wanna sleep, Buck,” Steve says instead of answering, his hand curling limply in Bucky’s shirt. “Fall asleep and lose you, too.”

Bucky’s heart clenches as he pulls Steve’s hand off his shirt and wraps his fingers tight around Steve’s cold palm. “You’re not gonna lose me, Steve, I’m right here. What’re you doing at St. George, Steve? You gotta tell me, it’s okay.”

“Don’t want you to hate me,” Steve says blearily, and Bucky shakes him gently.

“I’d never hate you. Everything’s gonna be fine. I’m gonna take care of you.” He pets Steve’s hair, gentle and caring. He’s starting to panic. “You can tell me.”

“Not a fairy,” Steve says finally, sounding faded. “Don’t think so. But I just want...”

The words weigh heavy in Bucky’s chest. “Oh, Jesus, Steve…”

Bucky can feel his throat getting tight. Tears pricking at his eyes. Not Steve. Not sweet, innocent Steve who still believed in waiting til marriage like they taught them in Sunday School. Not this. 

“Steve, you didn’t…”

“Asked a guy who wasn’t working. Thought he was. He got mad and roughed me up. Cops came ‘n everyone scattered.”

Bucky is shaking. His mind blank. “I’m gonna kill him,” he says instinctively, “I’ll fucking kill all of them who touched you.” He moves to stand, but Steve presses tighter against him. He’s still in tears, and Bucky’s anger momentarily ebbs away for worry. 

“Don’t,” Steve manages, “Don’t leave, please.” He curls tight into Bucky’s chest. “I wanted—I ask them for it, don’t blame them. Please, I wanted…” 

Bucky shakes his head, and Steve’s body only trembles harder.

“What were you _thinking?_ ” Bucky asks helplessly. His throat is sore from forcing back the need to cry, not while Steve is so distraught. “Why would you do that? God, you could’ve gotten _killed._ ”

“Yeah,” Steve answers, sounding nearly wistful, and Bucky flinches.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Bucky says after a moment, teeth clenched to keep his voice steady, “I’m gonna take care of you and everything’s gonna be okay. Understand?” 

Steve shakes his head, but Bucky only pets his hair softly. 

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he repeats, at a loss for what else to say.

Steve squirms in his grip again, uncommonly strong for someone who had been falling asleep just moments ago. “It’s so much money,” he says finally, “I can’t—can’t let you pay for me, please…”

“Steve, it’s okay,” Bucky says softly, “You don’t have —" 

Steve wriggles up against Bucky’s lap, and Bucky falls abruptly silent.

“Doesn’t have to be money, then,” Steve says in a voice that doesn’t sound anything like his own, “I can be good, Bucky, just let me —"

“Oh my God,” Bucky yelps, shoving Steve off of his lap as if he’s been burnt. “Fuck, Steve, _no._ Oh my God.” 

He gets to his feet, pacing slightly. Steve is just out of his mind with grief and exhaustion. He never would have done that otherwise. He knows Bucky doesn’t need anything from him.

But when he looks back at Steve, he only looks wounded, watching Bucky like a kicked dog. “I know I’m not much to look at,” Steve says, “But I can be good, Bucky, I promise. They like me. Some of ‘em tell me… tell me I’m good.”

Bucky feels sick. “Steve —"

“I know they probably—probably tell that to all of the johns but I think I...one of the queens said I was pretty enough...”

“Steve, Jesus, shut up.” The room is spinning and Bucky can’t breathe. He collapses back onto the couch, flinching when Steve crawls back on top of him. “Don’t do this to me, Steve. I can’t—I can’t…”

“I know you like girls,” Steve interrupts, wildly misinterpreting Bucky’s resistance, “I won’t get jealous if you close your eyes and think of a dame. One of the boys said I sound like one, anyhow.”

“ _Shut up!_ ” His voice is so loud that Steve jumps, sliding somewhat panicked off his lap. “You’re so tired, and you’re so scared and you’re so —" Bucky swallows hard, “so lonely that you don’t know what you’re doing. Everything will be okay. I’m gonna keep you safe, okay?”

Steve shakes his head, frail fingers wrapping around Bucky’s wrist. “No,” he says firmly, “Everyone’s always taking care of me,” he says, words slurring, “They take care of me til there’s nothing left. It’ll kill you, too.”

“You’re not making sense, pal,” Bucky points out, “I know you think—you’re not thinking clearly, okay? I need you to get some sleep.”

Steve shakes his head. “She was fine and I fell asleep and she was dead,” he repeats, babbling, “She’d been fine and I—I went to sleep —”

“Steve, buddy, look at me,” Bucky says gently, taking Steve’s face in his hands. Steve’s eyes meet his but they only seem to look past him. “Your ma was sick for a really long time, okay? I’m gonna be fine. Nothing’s wrong with me.” 

Steve watches him flatly, tilting his head. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like several minutes.

Suddenly, he surges forward, covering Bucky’s mouth with his own for an instant before Bucky shoves him off. 

“Steve —!” Bucky shouts, feeling abruptly empty as he pushes him away. This isn’t Steve. He doesn’t know who this is. He just wants Steve back.

“Bucky,” Steve sounds heartbroken, fingers reaching out to touch Bucky’s face, “Bucky please, let me pay you back.”

“Stop _saying_ that,” Bucky says hysterically, grabbing Steve’s wrist. “How can you think—I’ve _never_ asked for _anything_ from you. Why would you suddenly think that you owe me anything?” 

Tears are running fresh down Steve’s face and Bucky doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong.

“You don’t owe me anything, Steve,” he repeats helplessly, and Steve crawls back into his lap. “I just want to give you what I can.” Steve nods, curling against his chest, but doesn’t say anything. Bucky lets go of his wrist to run a hand through Steve’s hair.

Finally, Steve whispers against his throat, “Can you give me this?”

“Goddamnit, Steve,” Bucky starts, but Steve rolls his hips and Bucky falls silent.

“Not to pay you back, then. Because I want it.” 

It isn’t true, it can’t be. Steve’s just out of his mind with exhaustion, but the words cause Bucky’s resolve to slip away. He looks down to watch Steve writhe against his lap. 

“I want it, Bucky please.” He grinds against Bucky’s lap and Bucky groans, his hands flying up to grab Steve by the shoulders.

Muscles refuse to listen to the screaming in Bucky’s head. _Push him away, push him away, push him away_. His hands only manage to hold Steve still, fingers pressed into warm cotton over the skin and bones of Steve’s shoulders.

“Please, Bucky,” he whispers, sounding desperate, “I want it so bad, I promise I’ll be good.” 

Bucky’s words are stuck in his throat so hard he feels as if he’s gagging on them. Steve won’t stop shifting against his lap and it’s been so long since Bucky’s had the time or money to go out and find a girl.

So Steve’s hands are soft and small on his neck, blunt fingernails curling against his skin. Steve’s always been so shy and quiet on the topic of sex. Bucky’s unnerved by how much he likes it.

Afraid to touch Steve back, Bucky pulls his hands back to his sides and sits stiff as a board, shoulders tight against his ears. Steve barely notices.

“It feels so good,” Steve whines against his ear. “Please, I just wanna feel good, Bucky, please.” Bucky grabs onto Steve’s face and forces him to look him in the eye. There’s a spark that wasn’t there before, but he still looks dazed. “Please…”

He doesn’t want to like it. He shouldn’t. He can hear Sarah’s voice in his head, sharp and reprehensive, “ _James Buchanan Barnes!_ ” The tone she’d get when Bucky would let Steve splash around in the river before April, when it was still too cold for him.

There’s a sudden, clear recall in Bucky’s mind of them curled up close like this in Steve’s bedroom when the door creaks open, Sarah popping her head in to ask if they’d like anything and seeing the way Bucky’s hands are on her son. Her gentle, innocent, _impossibly delicate_ son. And now Bucky, who has spent his whole life trying to keep him safe, is just someone else he needs to be protected from.

God, Sarah would hate Bucky for this. When they were kids, she would tell him over and over how thankful she was Bucky was around to keep her bull-headed son out of trouble, but now, with this — if she could see what Bucky is just _allowing to happen_ —and why? Because he hasn’t had a girl in a few months? He’s a monster.

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice cuts through his thoughts, “Please.”

He can’t stand it. The begging tone in Steve’s voice, like he’s somehow perfected the needy fairy routine in two days. 

“Stop it,” he hisses through his teeth, and Steve sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and stops moving. Bucky takes a deep breath.

“I’m gonna take you to bed,” he says firmly, “And we’re going to sleep.” 

Steve shakes his head, weeping into Bucky’s shirt.

“I can’t, I can’t lose you,” he says, barely audible through the tears and Bucky’s shoulder. “If I lose you I don’t have anything.”

“You’re not gonna lose me,” Bucky says gently, scooping Steve into his arms like he weighs nothing and carrying him to his bedroom. Usually, Steve can’t stand being carried. Even when he’s too sick to walk, as long as he has the consciousness to protest, he will. He’ll thrash in Bucky’s arms and insist that he can get places on his own.

Now, he doesn’t even bother to try, limp and sobbing into Bucky’s shirt even as Bucky tries to sit him on the cot. 

“You’re gonna sleep right next to me,” he says, peeling Steve’s fingers out of the grip on his collar. “I’m not gonna let you do this to yourself.”

Unbuttoning Steve’s shirt with a single-minded concentration, Bucky adds, “I’m gonna make you breakfast in the morning.” 

Steve doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem to hear as Bucky’s unable to keep from scolding.

“Lord knows the last time you had a decent meal. You can’t live like this, Steve.” 

Steve watches him silently, and Bucky undresses him slowly, flinching when he sees dark wine-coloured bruises on his flanks, grouping down by his waist. 

“This from that goon who smacked you around?”

Steve looks down at himself as if he hasn’t to bothered in days. “I guess so,” he says drowzily, “Sometimes the wolves’ll get rough. If I—if I asked.”

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky flinches, “Don’t talk like that. Why’re you doing this?”

“‘Cause I want it, Bucky,” he says, tugging on Bucky’s shirt. “I want —"

“You don’t want this,” Bucky argues, feeling foolish as he shakes his head. He pulls an old long john shirt out of his dresser and tugs it over Steve’s head. Steve’s too exhausted to fight against Bucky dressing him. “You never wanted this. You wanted—you wanted to find a nice girl. You used to tell me. You wanted…”

Bucky’s words die in his throat. Steve is laughing, cold and somewhat hysterical.

“I wanted ma to get better,” Steve offers darkly, “I want to live past thirty, but what does it matter.” 

Bucky doesn’t have anything to say to that. It feels as if his heart’s stopped beating. They don’t talk about it. They never talked about Sarah dying, either, but they certainly don’t talk about Steve’s life ending any time soon. Steve used to try, but Bucky never liked listening to it, which made Steve feel guilty. Now he doesn’t even seem to care. 

“None of that matters anymore,” Steve says finally, “It doesn’t matter, and they like me.”

“ _Stop it._ ” 

Steve steps out of the his pants, but when he tries to pull off his boxers, Bucky pulls his wrists away. Steve whines, and Bucky looks down, feeling shameful and disgusting. He doesn’t look up until Steve tugs on his shirt again. 

“Do you want me?” Bucky opens his mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a wet gasp. Steve is shaking, and Bucky feels despicable. “Please Bucky, tell me. You don’t have to mean it, just—just tell me.”

It’s like ice in his veins. _You don’t have to mean it._ Bucky’s mask cracks and he drops to his knees, his hands clutching at Steve’s face. 

“Steve. _Steve_. I do, I mean it. I’d never lie to you, Stevie, you know that. I wouldn’t ever —" Steve nods, licking his lips. He reaches out to brush Bucky’s hair from his face.

“I want you to,” he says softly, and Bucky doesn’t know what he means by that. “Please, Bucky. Please fuck me. I’ll be good, I swear.”

Bucky swallows, his stomach tense with knots as Steve tugs the buttons from Bucky’s shirt. Bucky rips it back from him. “I know, Stevie. I know you will.” 

Steve leans forward, kissing Bucky’s throat, light and soft, and Bucky takes a shaky breath and pushes him away.

_Sarah would kill you._

“I can make you want me, Bucky,” he says forebodingly, and Bucky runs a hand down his back. “I learned some tricks. I can make you feel good.” He presses close, and Bucky gets up to drop back onto the bed.

“I know you can,” Bucky says nervously, “I—I know it.”

Steve crawls onto his lap and wriggles against him. 

“Steve,” he says softly, tucking fingers under his chin, “Steve, you’re so—you don’t know what you’re doing. I’m not—I’m… Please don’t cry. I do want you. I do, okay?”

Steve smiles joylessly, curling his fingers in Bucky’s hair. “Yeah?” he asks breathlessly, “Fuck me, then, Bucky, c’mon.” 

Bucky shakes his head, sitting Steve on the bed to shed his slacks, but not his boxers. He crawls over Steve and kisses his jaw.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” Bucky says warmly, wrapping around Steve and pulling his blanket over them both. He just wants to do the right thing. He wants to make Sarah proud, now more than ever. He always did his best to keep Steve safe, like she’d want him to. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Steve shakes his head, curling tight under Bucky’s chin. “I woke up and she —"

“I know, pal,” he says, cradling him close. “I know, but I’m still gonna be here.”

Bucky’s warm and solid and heavy, and Steve quickly loses the fight to stay awake while tucked underneath him. Bucky’s too nervous to sleep, afraid of Steve waking up in the middle of the night feeling alone. 

The memory returns, several years ago, sleeping over when they were little, and how Steve woke up in the middle of the night to an asthma attack, something in the air making it impossible for him to breathe. Bucky woke up to him gasping and ran to get Sarah.

In the waiting room at the hospital, she sat next to Bucky and told him how thankful she was that he was so brave. 

“He might’ve died without you,” she told him seriously. “He’s so lucky to have you to look out for him.”

Bucky had stayed for several nights after that, staying up to vigilantly watch Steve sleep as late as his little body could handle before falling asleep with a hand on Steve’s chest. As long as he could feel the heartbeat and the steady rise and fall of his chest, everything was going to be all right.

Now, Bucky finally falls asleep with Steve nestled tightly against his chest, waking up several times in the night to pull him closer. Steve sleeps straight through the night and into the afternoon, and Bucky’s too panicked to leave him. Instead he lays with him, watching him breathe.


	2. Chapter 2

When Steve does wake up, he does it all at once. There’s a moment of disorientation and shuffling under the sheets before he snaps up like a whip, a small little gasp of panic bursts from his mouth. Bucky’s half-awake body is up before the rest of him, and he wraps an arm around Steve, pulling him close into his side before he can panic too much.

“Mornin’, pal. Everything’s okay. Made it through the night, same as you.”

Steve lunges and throws his arms around Bucky’s neck, squeezing tight as he hoists himself into his lap. “Bucky,” he says in quiet breath, like he’s just run a mile, “Bucky, Bucky, I’m so sorry, please—please, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay, Steve,” Bucky says gently, “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, look at me, buddy.” He pulls Steve away from his chest to get a good look at his face. “Everything’s okay. Okay?” Steve starts to nod, but his body goes tense, Bucky flinches when he feels him stop breathing. “Steve?”

“She’d hate me.”

“Hey, Steve—Steve _no_ , no she wouldn’t. Steve, look at me.”

Steve is shivering, bleary-eyed and barely awake and Bucky can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the exhaustion or the nerves. He wraps his arms tight around Steve’s chest and listens to him breathing. “She’d be disgusted. How could I do this? What—what was I _thinking?_ ”

“Steve.” At a loss for what else to do Bucky takes him by the shoulders and him and pins down him to the bed. Last time Steve had nervous trouble like this it helped to hold him down. “Steve, look at me. Steve, your ma loved you, okay? She’d never think any less of you, no matter what. Steve, please look at me.”

“She’s gone and I didn’t feel anything,” Steve says quietly, “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Bucky assures him, dropping his forehead to Steve’s. “Nothing’s wrong with you, okay? This is a hell of a thing to handle on your own, right?” He waits until Steve nods. “But you don’t have to do it on your own. I’m right here now. I’m gonna help you out.”

Steve stares at him, and Bucky smiles, nervous. 

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

Steve nods again. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky answers, “Yeah, I’m right here.” 

Steve wriggles as if he wants to sit up, but when Bucky eases off of shoulders, his mouth is on Bucky’s. Bucky rips away from him, but Steve grabs onto his wrist. “Please, Bucky.”

“Steve—you just said…” All Bucky can think of is the night before, his pleading, needy voice. “You just said…”

Steve drops his wrist to run his fingers over Bucky’s neck. “Not when it’s you, Bucky.”

“Jesus, Steve, c’mon, don’t—don’t do this.”

“Ma loved you,” Steve says, tugging at his hair to try and pull him down for another kiss. “Said you were always looking out for me.”

“I am,” Bucky says carefully. “I am, Steve, I’ll always look out for you.”

“You’re always willing to take care of me,” Steve says gently, “You always—always wanna keep me safe.”

Bucky can feel his resolve slipping away. Steve looks so much more present than he did the night before, watching him pleadingly. The bruises on his chest are yellowing and the swelling in his black eye has reduced. The scrape on his bottom lip has scabbed dark with blood. Bucky has to quell a dark, violent urge break off the teeth of the one who’d done that to Steve. The image is in his head of a harrowed, stricken Steve with unwashed hair and vacant eyes wandering alleys all night, forking over money to have trade boys go to town on him. The thought makes Bucky feel sick. He only wants Steve to be safe, only wants to make this moment better for him. 

“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “Yeah, pal, that’s my job, remember?”

Steve sighs. “Your job,” he repeats hollowly. “It was ma’s job, too. “ 

Bucky shakes his head. Any line of thought that starts this way right now can’t be good. “I like watching out for you, Steve. You’re my best friend.” Steve smiles up at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Bucky had never seen this look of defeat on Steve’s face before last night and now it’s all Bucky thinks he’ll ever see again.

“You always take care of me,” Steve parrots back, “You always—you’re always there.”

“I am,” Bucky says firmly. “I will be.”

Steve shakes his head as if to argue, and Bucky furrows his brow. “Tell me,” Steve says quietly. “Tell me why.”

“Steve…”

Steve shakes his head against the sheets again. “Please tell me, Bucky.” he says, his hand clenching in Bucky’s hair until Bucky pulls it away. “Please.” When Bucky doesn’t say anything, Steve manages insistently, his voice tight, “You don’t—you don’t like boys. You’ve only—only ever been with…”

Bucky scoffs, effectively cutting Steve off before he can finish. “That’s not true,” Bucky says slowly. “You—you know that.” 

Steve frowns at him. “What?”

Bucky doesn’t mean to laugh. His throat burns in an effort to keep from crying and his lungs are starting to ache so badly in the need for air that a cackle bursts hysterically out of him, startling Steve enough to jump.

“You, uh. You remember when you let me practice kissing on you before I was gonna do it to Rosie Lombardino?” 

Steve giggles, and it sounds almost like a real laugh, breathless around the edges. “Yeah, we were eight,” he says with a sort of relieved exasperation, the tone of someone who’s convinced themselves it doesn’t count when you’re that small. Bucky runs his thumb over Steve’s bruised jaw.

“Yeah,” Bucky admits, “well, what if I told you I really just wanted you to be my first kiss.” Steve’s face changes, utterly mystified in a matter of seconds. “And second, and third…. How many did we get to that night before your ma came in to check if we were sleeping?”

“Seven,” Steve answers immediately, and Bucky ducks his head and smiles against his collarbone. “You said you wanted to be sure you knew how to do it.” Steve tugs gently on Bucky’s hair, and Bucky looks back up. Steve’s smiling, distant and faded. “Nobody else.”

Bucky frowns. “What?”

“Nobody else has ever kissed me. Nobody’s ever wanted to.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “But…” he trails off awkwardly, and Steve laughs in that same uncomfortable tone from before.

“Quiffs don’t kiss, Buck. You’re the only one who’s ever wanted —" Bucky leans forward without another thought and takes his mouth in his, tilting his chin up toward him. Steve lets out a quiet squeak, twisting his fingers in Bucky’s hair. 

Bucky deepens the kiss, running his tongue over the seam of Steve’s lips before pulling away just enough to murmur, “Open your mouth for me.” Steve’s jaw drops, and Bucky giggles. All of this seems so surreal, he’s not even sure he’s awake anymore. “Not yet, just—when I, when I kiss you, okay?” 

Steve nods dumbly, “Okay,” he says, his voice barely a breath. 

Bucky presses his mouth back to Steve’s, careful and soft, and Steve lets his mouth fall open against Bucky’s tongue. Steve’s breath catches against the kiss, and Bucky presses closer, holding him steady. He lets his hands slide up to thread through Steve’s hair before breaking away.

Steve blinks back at him, looking slightly dazed and shaken. “That’s changed a bit,” he says breathlessly, “From—from last time.” 

Bucky smiles. “Yeah,” he says gently, watching Steve’s eyes flutter as he rolls his fingers through his hair. “Is it okay?” 

Steve nods, and Bucky leans forward to kiss him again. Steve melts against him, cool fingers and busted knuckles skating over his neck, and Bucky pulls him closer. When he breaks the kiss again, Bucky noses gently at his cheek, pulling away when he feels tears.

“Steve?”

Steve shakes his head furiously, pulling him close again. “No, it’s okay,” he says hurriedly. “Just—do it again. Please?” 

Bucky swallows hard, and when he hesitates, Steve shakes his head again. 

“It’s not you, I promise. It’s fine.” 

“I know you miss her,” Bucky says softly, lips brushing against Steve’s cheek, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He drags his hand over Steve’s face. “I’ve got you.”

Steve nods, his hand tugging impatiently on Bucky’s hair. “Again. Please.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says stupidly, covering Steve’s mouth with his own again. It’s safe like this, burrowed away from the world with Steve curled against him while Bucky pours everything he’s had into it. Steve is still clumsy at it, his hands hesitant on Bucky’s face, and Bucky forgets for a moment that anyone else has ever touched him. 

Not like this. No one else.

They don’t deserve him. None of them do. Neither does Bucky, but Bucky is selfish and greedy and needs Steve so much more than Steve will ever need him. Steve keeps him honest, keeps him on the right side. Bucky hasn’t thought about heaven since they were nine years old, but if he’s lucky enough to get in, it’ll be because of Steve.

After, Steve pushes him back to catch his breath, cheeks flushed and pink, and Bucky turns his attention back to Steve’s face, down his throat. He traces the bruises with a delicate fingertip. He lets one hand wander down Steve’s chest and Steve keens into his ear. Bucky startles when Steve takes him by the wrist and slides Bucky’s hand up his shirt, leaving it splayed over his chest.

Bucky isn’t sure what to do, what he’s allowed to do, and leaves his hand frozen for a moment until he hears Steve’s voice, quiet and shy. 

“I like —" he shifts slightly, and Bucky’s hand eases down his ribs. “ — there.” He lets out a sound like a purr against Bucky’s neck and Bucky’s breath catches as he strokes his hand back up to Steve’s chest to do it again.

Steve whispers something under his breath, but even as close as Bucky is he can’t understand the words. He drags his hand over Steve’s ribs and pulls his nails lightly over Steve’s pale skin, watching it turn pink under his touch. Steve squirms, swallowing hard, and Bucky looks back up at him

“I um,” he starts, licking his lips before continuing firmly, “I thought of you.” Bucky feels his whole body go cold. “Ev—every time.”

“Steve…”

“Picked—I always picked… they always looked like you. I mean, I—almost...” Steve looks wistful. “Big and strong like you. Held—held me down.” 

Bucky frowns, covering Steve’s mouth with his hand. “I don’t—Jesus, I don’t know if I should know this,” he says tersely, and Steve falls silent, his breath catching hard enough to hear through Bucky’s fingers. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Gently, Steve wraps his own bruised fingers around Bucky’s hand and pull it away. “The queen at the door said I could be the one making the money. Said I was pretty.” He smiles, like no one’s ever told him that before, and Bucky’s heart clenches. Why hadn’t Bucky ever told him that? “I didn’t mean to go back, but. I—I just wanted —” 

Bucky nods, not knowing what else to do. 

Steve swallows audibly and says again, “I didn’t feel anything.”

Bucky isn’t sure anymore if he means when his mother died, or if he means from the sex. It doesn’t matter. He nods anyway. “I know. It’s alright.”

Beneath him, up close like this, Steve looks frailer than Bucky’s ever let himself notice before, black eye, narrow chest heaving from holding back sobs and his face wet from not doing it well enough. 

“Please,” he says again, and Bucky’s resolve cracks apart.

“You want this?” Bucky asks pointedly, and Steve nods. “This isn’t just—just to pay me back or whatever ridiculous thing you think you owe me?” When Steve doesn’t respond right away, Bucky repeats, “You want this, now. _You_ do. Right?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers quietly, watching his face with a strangely awed expression. “I want it, Buck.” 

Bucky nods.

“Okay,” he says shakily, “But then—we’re—we’re gonna do it how I want.” Steve’s eyes widen and he nods. Bucky can guess he’s thinking he means something deviant, but he only means the opposite. If Steve is going to insist on this, Bucky’s going to make sure it’s done the right way. The way Bucky _knows_ nobody else bothered with him.

He rummages in his end table until he pulls out the little brown jar of Vaseline. When he drags his fingers through it, Steve licks his lip.

“You don’t gotta do that part,” he says, his voice hushed, “It—it hasn’t been that long, you can just…”

Bucky swallows hard, shaking his head. He doesn’t want to hear that. “No, I want to,” he says shakily, “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Steve smiles, and Bucky shakes his head again. It’s not a right smile. The one that looks wrong on his face. Forced. 

“I said we’re gonna do it my way,” he repeats, and Steve nods in agreement. He doesn’t say anything else. Bucky feels weight sinking in his chest. He cradles Steve’s head in one hand, while the other one slides down between his legs. What is he _doing?_

He slides a finger into Steve, slow, heart stuttering when it goes in so easily. Steve makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat, and Bucky watches his face. 

“I can take care of you,” he whispers against Steve’s mouth. “You can come stay here with me, everything will be okay.”

Steve doesn’t respond, curling his fingers in Bucky’s hair as he watches him expressionlessly. 

“You don’t gotta live alone in that house,” Bucky says firmly, and Steve yelps as Bucky brushes his finger firmly inside him. He slides in a second, and Steve hums in approval, eyes fluttering shut. “You can come live with me.”

Steve doesn’t say anything to that. He doesn’t say anything at all until Bucky slides himself inside Steve with a moan. He’s so tight and frail, it causes something in Bucky to shudder. The mask on Steve’s face finally cracks, his eyes rolling back. It makes Bucky feel powerful, and he thrusts forward, revelling in the soft little noise Steve makes.

He cups Steve’s face in his hands and tilts his chin, looking him in the eye. “I’m right here, Stevie, look at me. I’m—I’m gonna take good care of you.” 

Steve stares back at him as Bucky babbles on. 

“You’re never gonna be alone, Steve. I’m always gonna be here. Just—just for you.” He feels so good, and Bucky can feel himself getting dizzy. He presses his forehead to Steve’s, and Steve lets out a content little hum, wrapping his legs around Bucky’s waist.

“Do you love me?”

“I do,” Bucky answers with a gasp of air, “I do love you. So—so much, I just —”

Steve lets out a long breath of air and pushes Bucky’s shoulders until he can look down at him. “Tell me,” he says distantly, “Tell me again, please.”

“I love you, Steve,” Bucky tells him earnestly, “I love you, I love—love you so much, it drives me —” his voice cuts off, the heat in the room making it hard to breathe, but Steve’s eyes are bright and alive and even under the scrapes and scabs he looks so perfect and beautiful and almost like himself again. 

“You—you want me?” Steve’s voice is reedy, and Bucky pushes into him to hear him moan. Bucky nods, dizzy and panting, and Steve’s fingers are cool on his face. “Say it, Bucky, please.”

Bucky feels a chill down his spine. He had no idea how much Steve pined for approval. He wonders if Steve would’ve ever thought to go to the St. George’s if Bucky had just told him how much he meant to him. “I want you, Steve. I want—I’ve thought of this —” 

He doesn’t know why it comes out of his mouth, but Steve’s whole body goes rigid at the words, tense for a moment before sagging heavy against the bed. 

“Tell me,” Steve demands, fingers nesting in Bucky’s hair. 

Bucky lets his hips slow down, gentle and relaxed. He wants this to last. “Wasn’t ever gonna tell you. Didn’t want to scare you off. I think—think about you. At night. All—all the time.” Steve shivers, and Bucky cups his face. “I’m gonna take care of you now. Just me.”

Steve presses back against his hips, and Bucky realizes he’s stopped moving. “Like—like I’m your girl?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods without meaning to. Steve’s eyes flash and he grunts, “Harder.”

Bucky moves faster, pushing into him hard enough that Steve has to clench his hands into fists in Bucky’s hair to keep still. 

“I can be your girl, Bucky,” Steve says dreamily. “I’d be good to you.” 

“I know, babydoll,” he says gently, and Steve’s mouth quirks into a smile before breaking open into a moan at the way Bucky tilts his hips. “You’re already so good to me. All you need are some pearls.” He means to make Steve smile, maybe earn him a playful smack on his arm, but Steve only groans and jerks hard into him.

Bucky’s eyes widen, watching Steve squirm against him a moment before leaning forward to press his mouth to Steve’s ear. 

“Is that what you want, babydoll?” Bucky whispers, and Steve is already nodding before Bucky can even finish asking, “Want me to dress you up in heels and pearls so you can be my girl?”

“Yes,” Steve whines, one hand reaching up to clench in Bucky’s hair, “Yeah, Bucky I—I want it.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Bucky hisses against his throat, and he feels Steve come an instant before he does himself. Steve’s face twists, and Bucky’s so afraid he’s hurt him that he tries to pull away, but Steve’s grip in his hair tightens, pulling him close.

“Want it,” Steve says again, over and over, “Want it, want—want it.” 

They come down together, silent and wrapped around each other, Bucky petting Steve’s sweat-slicked hair back from his face as he breathing evens out. Bucky watching him and tries not to think about the little pool of shame curling in his chest. Steve looks away like he’s embarrassed, like he hadn’t meant to say those things out loud, or react the way he did, so Bucky gathers him close, burying his face in Steve’s neck.

“I want it too, Steve,” he says before even giving himself the chance to think it through. He wants to give Steve everything. “I want all of it too.”

Steve is hesitant about going back to the house to collect things. For the next three days, whenever Bucky brings it up, Steve goes moody and quiet and mutters, “Later.”

It’s not that Bucky doesn’t understand, but as time goes on Bucky knows it’s only going to get harder. Finally, he asks Steve if he wants to stay in the apartment while Bucky gets some friends from the docks to help him out. He only wants to make it easier on Steve, which is why he’s so surprised when Steve looks horrified at the idea.

“Those are my things,” Steve says nervously. “I—mine and hers.”

Instantly, Bucky regrets offering. “I just thought—you seem like you don’t want to go.” At Steve’s face, Bucky adds helplessly, “I mean, it makes sense if you don’t. It’s okay.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He looks from Bucky’s face to the floor. He stares distantly for a moment before looking up with a brief nod. 

“Okay,” he says pointedly. “Then let’s go.” 

Bucky cringes. He’s not so sure if it’s a good idea to nudge Steve into this.

He raises a hand to assure Steve that it’s fine, but Steve grabs his jacket off the coat rack. “Come on,” he shouts over his shoulder. “You’re right. We should’ve done this ages ago.”

Bucky should’ve known not to let him go through Sarah’s room by himself but Bucky knew better than to try and tell Steve Rogers what to do. Bucky’s cleared out all the other rooms and hasn’t seen Steve since he insisted he go through her things. He eases the door open cautiously and peers inside. 

“Steve?”

Nothing in Sarah’s room has been moved, not even her dresser drawers have been opened. Steve’’s lying curled up in the middle of her bed while the room remains exactly as if Sarah Rogers is going to walk back into it at any minute. Bucky sighs. He should’ve known better. 

“Steve,” he says gently, making his way to Sarah’s bed and lying down next to him, trying to curl around him and keep the grief out of his mind. “Steve, c’mon, it’s gonna be okay. We can keep…” Bucky trails off as he notices the string of pearls around Steve’s neck.

Oh. So the room hasn’t been completely undisturbed, after all.

Bucky isn’t sure what he should say, so he doesn’t say anything. He swallows hard, cringing when he can hear it in the silence of the room. His fingers trail hesitantly over the pearls and Steve lets out a loud, shaky breath, his body going limp against the bed. 

“Still smells like her,” Steve says quietly, and Bucky nods.

“The bed?”

Steve breathes in, deep and shuddering. “Everything.”

Bucky curls him close to his chest. “Yeah,” he agrees, burying his face reassuringly in Steve’s neck. He kisses Steve’s nape, just once, chaste and faint, and Steve twists around to face him. Bucky is afraid for a second, like maybe he’s crossed some sort of line until Steve sits up on his elbows and presses his mouth to Bucky’s.

Bucky lets himself be eased back down onto the bed, Steve’s hand nesting in his hair as they kiss lazily and slow. “Steve,” Bucky whispers against his mouth, “Is this—are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says without stopping the kiss, tugging Bucky closer. “Yeah, just touch me.”

Bucky’s breath stops hard in his chest. “Steve —” 

Steve doesn’t give him time to protest, grabbing his wrist and pulling it up to rest under his shirt. Bucky shakes his head, but Steve whimpers against his mouth, sweet and pleading, and Bucky just wants to give him what he wants.

He slides both hands under Steve’s sweater, pushing it up to his arms before helping to pull it off, the rattle of the pearls unfamiliar and loud as they land against Steve’s bony chest. Steve lets out a sigh before tugging at Bucky’s shirt, keening impatiently until Bucky shrugs it off. Bucky has no idea what he’s doing, but Steve is looking at him as if he’d hung the moon, and Bucky will do anything to keep that look on Steve’s face.

“I love you,” Bucky reminds him, his voice firm. Steve smiles at him, his eyes sad, and Bucky cups his face. “I love you, Steve. Nothing’s gonna hurt you ever again. I won’t let it.” 

Steve scoffs, but Bucky kisses him again before he can argue.

Deep down he knows he has no control over keeping that promise. But he needs to believe it for now. For himself just as much as for Steve.

Steve moans and presses against him, and Bucky gasps at the feeling of Steve getting hard. Bucky hasn’t even touched him yet. “Steve —” his voice is hoarse as he tries to think of something to say, but Steve just shakes his head, not letting the kiss break. Fingers wrap around one of Bucky’s hands to drag it down over Steve’s pants.

“Steve,” Bucky says again, hesitant, and Steve finally pulls away, frustrated.

“Stop it,” he says tightly, and Bucky notices tears in his eyes for the first time, “Stop saying my name like that, like this is a bad idea. Like I don’t know what I’m doing. I loved —" he swallows hard, his words shaking. 

“I lived nineteen years in this damn house. I’ve never _known_ anything else. And I—I can’t do it, Bucky.” Hot tears are sliding down Steve’s temples, and Bucky brushes them away automatically. “I can’t let the last memory I have of it be finding her —"

Bucky cuts him off with another kiss, nodding as he pulls away just enough to whisper, “All right,” he says gently, “You’re right, you’re right, it’s all right.” The tension seeps from Steve’s body as Bucky peppers his face with kisses, whispering over and over again, “It’s all right. I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s all right.”

Steve is breathing deep and steady to keep the tears at bay, and Bucky plants kisses down his throat, trailing onto his chest. He’s nervous and shaking, listening closely when Steve’s breaths change in pitch as Bucky kisses over his ribs.

“ _Bucky,_ ” his voice still sounds pained, but breathless, and Bucky drags his tongue over the washboard pattern of his ribs. He’ll do anything to take the sadness from Steve’s voice. He grapples at Steve’s belt before realizing what they’re doing.

“Take these off,” he says suddenly, “I’ll be right back.”

Steve blinks owlishly at him for a moment before nodding, and Bucky flies off the bed and into the kitchen. He’d packed it away with the rest of the food they were going to bring home, but they could spare a little cooking oil.

By the time Bucky gets back, Steve is sitting up nervously in the center of the bed with nothing but the string of Sarah’s pearls around his neck. Bucky stands there for a minute, stricken by how it affects him. 

Steve’s black eye and busted lip weren’t bad enough and have mostly healed, but some of the darker bruises on his chest and hips still stand out bright red on his pale skin. His right knee has an awkwardly healing scrape on it, and there are scratches on his back that Bucky hadn’t noticed before.

Steve watches Bucky standing in the doorway for a moment before asking timidly, “What’s wrong?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says finally. “You’re just… really beautiful.”

Steve looks down at that. “Sure.”

Bucky sighs. He wants to argue, but there’s no point. Steve is far too stubborn to believe him. He climbs back onto the bed and kisses Steve’s neck. “I just wanted to—here, lie back down.”

Steve drops backward onto the pillows, and Bucky follows, dropping light little kisses everywhere he can reach as he reaches back for the cooking oil. He slicks his fingers quickly and slides the first one inside, hesitant and gentle, and Steve watches him silently.

Bucky lets his other hand stroke Steve’s face. “You’re beautiful,” he says again, because Steve seems to listen better when they’re intimate like this, like he believes it when Bucky’s touching him. Steve doesn’t say anything, but his eyes soften, and Bucky smiles.

As he adds a second finger, Steve squirms, a quiet sound at the back of his throat, and Bucky takes a chance and runs his fingers over the pearls again. 

“Still wanna be my girl?” 

Steve nods, and Bucky licks his lips. 

“Gonna pick out some heels and a dress, too? You’ll look so pretty, baby.”

Steve’s mouth falls open a long moment before he finally manages to push “ _Yes_ ” off his tongue. Bucky watches fascinated as his eyes roll back. He pushes in a third finger, and Steve moans helplessly, his hand reaching down to wrap around his cock.

Bucky snatches his hand away and pins it to the pillow. He doesn’t expect the way Steve’s body jerks off the bed, but he’s entranced by it, watching hungrily as Steve falls apart. “God, Steve, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers, thrusting his hand into Steve until he can feel Steve trembling. 

Bucky pulls his hand away to slide oil onto his cock, and Steve lets out a thready whine of pleas as he’s left empty on the bed. “Please, Bucky, I can be—can be a good girl for you. Sew and clean for you. I’d be—I’d be good…” He doesn’t seem to realize what he’s saying out loud, but Bucky just nods, using one hand to guide himself into Steve while the other cups Steve’s face.

“You will be,” Bucky says gently as he presses into Steve, “God, look at you.” 

Steve stares back at him, pupils blown, busted lips parted, pearls around his throat, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s seen anything more beautiful in his life. He snaps his hips reactively, and Steve whines, craning his neck as his eyes flutter shut.

“Oh, God, baby —" Bucky leans close over Steve, pumping into him as Steve wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist. “God, you’re so beautiful, I’m gonna buy you a thousand silk dresses, rouge for your pretty little mouth —" Steve’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “How’s that sound, doll?” Bucky rambles, watching Steve’s face as he squirms.

“Want it,” Steve manages, “Want—wanna be your girl. Just—just for you.”

A thrill sings up Bucky’s spine at that. He nods. “No one else gets to see you all dolled up?” he asks against Steve’s ear. Steve shakes his head, one of his hands flying up from being fisted in the sheets to being fisted in Bucky’s hair. Bucky feels something warm and sharp and possessive curl at the pit of his stomach. “Just for me?”

Steve nods. “Just—just for you,” he says distantly, his whole body trembling. 

Bucky _hmms_ appreciatively and plants several kisses down Steve’s jaw. 

“Bucky,” Steve whispers finally, sounding nearly out of his mind, “Bucky, I—I gotta come.”

“Only when I touch you,” Bucky says firmly, and Steve shivers hard against the bed. He nods, but Bucky watches his fingers flex hard into the sheets, wanting to reach out. Captivated, Bucky unfurls Steve’s fingers from the bedsheet and brings his hand to his mouth, placing gentle kisses on his busted knuckles.

Steve makes a soft, pleased noise at the contact as his fingers stretch out to stroke Bucky’s face. Bucky’s eyes flick up to see Steve watching him warmly. 

“Bucky,” he says helplessly, his voice dizzy and needy but completely his own, “Please…”

Bucky gathers him close, wrapping his hand around Steve’s cock, and Steve _whines_ , high-pitched and loud. 

“Look at me, babydoll,” Bucky whispers, tilting his head back to look him in the eye. “Just look at me, that’s it.” Steve watches him, eyes dark and clouded until they roll back, breath hitching as he comes over Bucky’s hand.

Steve comes silently, mouth falling open and his back rigid as Bucky cradles him to his chest, cooing gently against his throat. 

“That’s it, babydoll,” he says into Steve’s hair, “That’s—that’s it.” 

Steve whimpers, pushing back against Bucky’s hips, and Bucky jerks forward again. He’s so close and Steve is tightening against him, it barely takes another four thrusts before Bucky is coming inside him.

Steve goes limp in his arms as he comes, whimpering against Bucky’s shoulder. “Yes,” he whispers, blunt nails digging into Bucky’s skin as he wraps tight around him, keeping him close. “Yes, _God,_ Buck, I —"

Bucky drops them both back against the bed, his forehead pressed to Steve’s as he pants against his cheek. Steve’s chest is heaving, but there’s no rattling to his breaths, so Bucky relaxes, eyes on the slope of Steve’s throat as it curves into his shoulders, pearls loose against his collarbones, disappearing in between his back and the bed.

Sarah’s bed. 

Something clicks in Bucky’s mind—suddenly, finally—and he’s alarmed to feel tears sting in his own eyes. Sarah Rogers is dead. Expected for the past year or so and still somehow so _jarring._ Bucky curls protectively around Steve, feeling him start to shiver. He’s not sure if he’s just starting to feel the cold or if he’s crying too, but either way he’s going to make it stop.

“We can keep anything you want, Steve,” Bucky whispers, his voice raw. “We won’t sell a scrap of it if you don’t want to, all right?” Steve is quiet for a long time after that, and Bucky wonders if he’s even listening.

Finally, he says, “I want the dresses.”

Bucky swallows. “Okay.” Steve runs his fingers over the pearls at his throat, as if he’s considering how much they’d be worth, and Bucky cuts him off. He doesn’t want him to think that way. “And her jewelry?” 

Steve licks his lips, his face pained. “I—I just…”

Bucky kisses his cheek. Other than the pearls, Sarah didn’t have anything worth too much money, but together it could at least help pay for their funeral expenses. 

“Just your favourites?” he offers tentatively, lips against his ear.

Steve nods, letting out a relieved sigh. He can part with enough of it to not feel quite so guilty. “Yeah,” he says, smiling shakily. “Just...” he touches the pearls again, and Bucky nods.

Bucky tucks a piece of hair behind Steve’s ear. They lie in silence for a while. Bucky can see the sun beginning to set from the window. “Are you ready for me to bring the crates in here?”

Steve nods, and Bucky kisses him again before sliding back into his pants. When he comes back into Sarah’s room, Steve is pulling things out of the wardrobe, dressed back in his pants and sweater. The pearls are still looped around his neck. They hang innocently, as if he’d merely forgotten they were there, but Bucky knows better than to think so. 

When Bucky walks up to help him, he notices Steve’s hands shaking. He leans forward and places a kiss on Steve’s nape, just above the clasp as he pries the plain black heels from his white-knuckle grip. 

“Anything you want,” he reminds him softly, and Steve nods.

He’s able to part with most things, stacking them neatly in a pile of things to be taken to sell. He shoves two pairs of shoes into that pile, her nurse shoes, and one pair that had been for when she still went out, too strappy and light for Steve to even consider keeping. He slides his feet into the last pair, sturdy, neat black heels, and stands.

For a moment, he’s too focused on his feet, eyes trained on the floor, and Bucky smiles. When Steve looks up, he’s startled to see Bucky’s face isn’t nearly as far from his own as it was a moment ago. “Oh,” he says quietly, as if he somehow hadn’t expected them to make him taller. 

Bucky grins at him. “Oh,” he echos back, verifying it to be the correct response. He leans forward and takes Steve’s mouth in a kiss, his stomach going warm at the pleased sound of surprise Steve lets out against his lips. When Bucky pulls away, Steve licks his lips, blushing as he looks back down on his feet.

“I like these.”

Bucky chuckles. “I like ‘em too,” he says, kissing Steve’s forehead, “Keep ‘em.” 

As Steve steps out of them, Bucky’s mind wanders to what he’ll look like in her dresses, how the skirts will fall over his thin hips. Sarah had been very slight, like her son. She had been taller, and at one point healthier, but Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if most of the dresses fit him more or less the same way they had fit her.

Steve looks back at him and smiles, hesitant and lopsided, and Bucky touches his face. Sarah hadn’t worn makeup in some time. Bucky was going to have to go out and buy some rouge. He thought of nicking some from the drugstore, but he would never hear the end of it from Steve if he did. He rolls his thumb over Steve’s lips, and Steve swallows, shy.

“What?”

Bucky blinks, realizing how he must’ve be staring. “Nothing,” he says quickly. “Just… thinking.” Steve frowns, but Bucky kisses the scowl off his face. “Pick out your dresses,” he says sweetly, and Steve smiles at him. 

As they leave the apartment toting the boxes they can carrying between them Bucky stops him, tucking a finger behind the clasp of Sarah’s pearls.

“I thought this was just for me,” Bucky says, glancing toward the door they were on their way out of.

Steve blinks, reaching up to clutch the necklace. By now he seems as if he actually _had_ forgotten he was wearing them. “Oh,” he says, reaching up to unlatch them from his throat. He stares at them curled limp in his hand for a moment before dropping them into his coat pocket.

Bucky frowns. He feels like he’s done something wrong by pointing them out, but he doesn’t want Steve to get into trouble for wearing lady’s jewelry on the way to Bucky’s place. He leans forward and kisses the crown of Steve’s head. 

“You can put them back on when we get home.”

He doesn’t, and Bucky is afraid to bring it up. It’s too late in the day to go back for more stuff by the time they make it to Bucky’s, and Steve sleeps curled against Bucky’s chest in his bed. 

It only takes another day to clear all the crates from the house and move them all into Bucky’s apartment. They take the selling crates to the pawn shops and are able to make enough money to give Sarah the kind of funeral she deserves, and there’s enough canned food left over from her pantry to last them a while. The crate of Sarah’s clothes gets slid into the back of a drawer of Bucky’s dresser, and Steve doesn’t bring it up again.

After the funeral, Steve slips away, and Bucky finds him trying to run back to the empty walk-up. All that’s left in there is the furniture Bucky can’t move on his own and refuses to let Steve help him with. He was planning to gather some of his friends from the docks to help him after Steve had settled down from the funeral.

There was no way Bucky was going to leave him alone until he felt like he could. Steve tries to push him away, but Bucky knows better than to let him. 

“I’m with you til the end of the line, pal,” he says, handing over the spare key Steve keeps under a brick. “Now are you sure you wanna stay here, or do you wanna go home?”

Steve bites his lip. “I _am_ home.”

“Stevie, c’mon. You know that’s not what I meant.” Steve shakes his head and stares at the door, and Bucky feels his heart break. “Nothing’s in there anymore,” he reminds him gently, “Just the old couch and beds.”

“Ma’s vanity,” Steve adds blankly, but he sounds resigned. He sighs. “Okay.” He turns back to Bucky, looking exhausted. “Okay, let’s go home.”


	3. Chapter 3

The first two weeks after Sarah’s funeral are startlingly uneventful. Steve doesn’t return to classes and instead spends his days milling quietly around the neighbourhood, receiving condolences from shopkeepers and neighbours who’ve just heard the news, cooking and cleaning while Bucky’s at work, and they slowly get used to each other’s presence in the apartment. Aside from sharing Bucky’s bed and a few furtive kisses in the dark, they’re nothing more than roommates.

Bucky is starting to think those few days before the funeral were a fever dream when he comes home from the docks one night to see Steve reading on the couch, fingers twisting in the pleats of Sarah’s favourite dark blue dress. 

The neckline dips lower on Steve than it had on his mother, exposing more of his flat, pale chest under the string of pearls. His feet are bare, peeking from the edge of the dress as he uses his knees to prop up his book. His face is turned away from Bucky, but he can see a healthy blush to his cheeks that isn’t usually there. Bucky’s mouth goes dry. He’s wearing rouge.

Bucky’s heart is hammering in his chest and Steve still hasn’t looked up. He’s engrossed in his book, fingers moving distractedly. Bucky wonders if Steve even heard him open the door. 

“Stevie?” 

Steve looks up from his book and Bucky’s breath catches hard in his chest at the way his lips stand out from his pale face. 

He looks nervous, so Bucky smiles. “Hey, babydoll. What’s for dinner?” 

Steve’s lips quirk into a smile, and he stuffs his bookmark into his book and sets it down.

“I made cabbage stew,” he says, making his way to Bucky slowly, as if afraid he might suddenly bolt. “Is—uh, is that okay?”

They’ve had cabbage stew plenty of times. They’re both used to it. That isn’t what Steve is asking. He’s asking permission. He’s asking for acceptance. Bucky nods readily. “That’s fine, doll. C’mere and let me look at you.”

Steve presses his lips together, too conscious of smearing the makeup on his lips to lick or bite them. When he creeps forward, Bucky takes his wrist and pulls him close. 

“You look so pretty, baby, did you get all dressed up for me?” 

Steve swallows, nods, and looks at his feet. Bucky follows his gaze.

“Where are your shoes, baby? Don’t you wanna show off the whole nine?”

Steve’s head jerks up like a puppet on a string, his eyes lighting up. He grins, twirling fast enough to make the skirt fan out around him as he runs for the bedroom. Bucky grins, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. It’s like a drug seeing Steve smile these days. Bucky still has to hold him when he cries, most nights. 

As Steve disappears into the bedroom, Bucky wanders into the kitchen and ladles the stew into bowls. He’s setting them down at the table when he hears Steve’s voice, unnaturally timid.

“Bucky?”

Bucky wheels around to see Steve’s hands knotted into the dark patterned fabric of the skirt. Bucky’s eyes drop to the floor, taking in the dainty look of Steve’s ankles in Sarah’s heels. 

“Oh, Stevie,” he whispers breathlessly, “You’re a thrill.”

Smiling shyly, Steve drops his tight grip on the skirt. Bucky sweeps into him, backing Steve against the wall. 

“You look…” he murmurs, trailing off, and Steve tilts his head back. He runs his thumb over Steve’s cheek, gentle. “Where’d you get this?”

“I uh, I made a few deliveries for Mr. Jamieson at the cornerstore,” Steve says carefully, embarrassed. “I didn’t want—I didn’t want to wear the dress without…” he trails off, and then laughs, “The guy at the drug store asked if I had a lady at home.”

The image of Steve trying to lie makes Bucky smirk, but it fades quickly as he takes in the way Steve is watching his face. He’s nervous. More than that, he’s _scared_ , and Bucky hates to think it’s his fault. He’s worried of what Bucky’s reaction might be. Worried this isn’t what he wants. Bucky isn’t sure even _Steve_ knows what he wants with this. 

He clears his throat before asking carefully, “Can I kiss you?”

Steve swallows hard, his lips pressing together. “You’re gonna muss it up,” he says hesitantly, and Bucky shudders at the way the image goes straight to his cock.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice cracking, and Steve’s eyes flash.

“Oh,” he says shakily, and Bucky presses closer. “Oka —"

Cutting him off abruptly, Bucky slides one hand around to cup the back of Steve’s skull, pressing their mouths together, his stomach fluttering at the way Steve’s lips drag slick against his own. It reminds him of the girls he had kissed in school, but different. Firmer, even as Steve sags back against him. 

There’s a quiet squeak from Steve, one hand clutching Bucky’s shoulder as the other twists into his hair. Bucky pulls back and Steve looks dazed, red lips smeared out of their perfect lines, and Bucky is trembling. He’s never needed to touch someone so much.

Steve’s eyes focus on Bucky’s face, going dark. “Buck…” he says breathlessly, reaching out and touching Bucky’s mouth. “You’ve got —" Bucky doesn’t let him finish, taking Steve’s mouth in his own again and pressing him back against the wall. When Steve falls lax against it, Bucky pulls away again.

“God, look at you.” Steve melts into the attention, and Bucky feels a pang in his chest for not telling him how beautiful he is every minute since they met. “You’re so beautiful, baby, I want—want to have you…” he trails off, and Steve jolts when he feels fingers tug his briefs down.

“You’re so beautiful, Steve,” Bucky repeats gently, wrapping his hand around Steve’s cock, “Please let me, I want —" 

Steve shakes his head, and Bucky pulls up short.

“I don’t wanna ruin it,” Steve tells him, sounding heartbroken, “I—I can’t —" 

Bucky releases a breath, taking Steve’s face in his hands. Steve whines and cringes at the loss of friction, and Bucky kisses his face.

“Shh, I would never—I’ll take care of you, Stevie, I promise.” Steve licks his lips, too far gone to remember the rouge smeared on his mouth, and Bucky loses track of himself for a moment. “Not gonna let anything happen to it,” he says finally, “Okay?” 

Steve hesitates, but nods, and Bucky kisses him again, waiting until he can feel Steve relax before sliding a hand back up the skirt.

The kitchen is silent other than their nervous breathing, broken off every few seconds so that Bucky can kiss Steve’s mouth. When Bucky pulls away completely, Steve has barely taken a full breath before Bucky drops to his knees, pushing Steve’s skirt around his waist to take his dick in his mouth. Steve jerks forward with a loud, embarrassing sound. “ _Fuck!_ ”

Startled into laughing, Bucky pulls off to mutter, “Nice girls don’t swear like that, Steve.”

“Shit,” he answers dizzily, his body sagging forward. Bucky winks at him before swallowing him back down. Steve is heavy on his tongue, and it’s a little harder to do than Bucky thought it would be, but Steve is making the most soft, beautiful noises and Bucky doesn’t want to stop.

The skirt falls from Steve’s shaky grip, fabric sliding soft over the back of Bucky’s neck, and something about it is so intoxicating Bucky can’t help but moan, working his throat over Steve in a way that makes Steve cry out and his knees buckle.

Not wanting to stop, Bucky presses one hand against Steve’s waist while the other tugs at his ankle. Steve lets out a surprised groan as he lets Bucky guide his leg over his shoulder, Sarah’s heel pressed tight against Bucky’s back.

“Oh my God,” Steve manages helplessly, “God, oh— _God_ , Bucky…”

The air is close and thick, blood pumping loud in Bucky’s ears. His jaw is starting to ache, making him oddly dizzy. He feels the skirt bunch up away from his face and glances up to see Steve looking nearly out of his mind. His hands clench hard in Bucky’s hair and Bucky lets out another soft noise, making Steve’s eyes roll back. His hips jerk, and Bucky groans.

He doesn’t want to stop, to ever have to look at anything else. It’s surreal to see the way his honest, straight-laced best friend who doesn’t even sneak booze or whistle at girls looks when he’s done up in his mother’s dress, rouge smeared over his lips, entirely unravelled as he fucks down Bucky’s throat.

Bucky’s hand is opening his pants before he even fully realizes it, pulling his cock out of his boxers and sliding his fist over himself as he watches Steve fall apart. Steve’s eyes land on Bucky and he whimpers, one of the hands in his hair falling to stroke his face.

“You’re beautiful, too,” Steve tells him, voice airy as nails roll light over his cheek, “So beautiful.” 

Bucky’s eyes slide closed for a moment, trying to suppress a chill. His hand is working fast on his own cock, his hips starting to roll freely into his hand. He’s so close, tension coiling in his spine as he starts to lose his rhythm. 

The heel between Bucky’s shoulder blades is starting to slip from Steve’s foot as he tries to pull Bucky in closer. Bucky’s eyes snap open. Steve looks as if he’s far away, eyes heavy-lidded with a distant smile on his face. 

“I gotta come, Bucky,” he says dreamily, “Please.” 

Bucky shivers and nods, sliding his mouth back to the tip of Steve’s cock and letting him come down Bucky’s throat. 

Bucky swallows carefully, greedily. He hadn’t expected to like it so much. He still has his lips wrapped around Steve’s cock when he comes over his own fingers. They both shudder at the feeling, and Bucky lets Steve drop from his mouth, catching his breath loudly against Steve’s thigh. Otherwise, the two stay frozen as they regain themselves.

Wiping his hand on his slacks, Bucky gingerly helps Steve drop his other foot to the floor. Steve wobbles, too unsteady from his orgasm to be stable in heels, and Bucky double checks that the mess is gone from his hand before sweeping Steve into his arms.

Still sluggish and dizzy, Steve’s yelp is somewhat delayed, and Bucky brings him into the living room, sitting them both on the couch. He holds Steve close to his chest, watching him blink back to himself. Bucky smiles when Steve’s eyes finally meet his again.

“Okay, Stevie?’ he asks gently. Steve nods, but suddenly frowns, and Bucky feels hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “What’s wrong?”

“Our stew is cold,” Steve answers, sighing. Bucky throws his head back and laughs.

“Do you want me to stick it in the oven?” Bucky asks, but Steve shakes his head.

“No, I—I’ll do it.” Bucky helps him out of his lap, and Steve gets shakily to his feet. “I’m supposed to.” 

Bucky scoffs. “Huh?”

The expression on Steve’s face turns anxious, his smile looking somewhat forced. “I promised I’d be good to you, Bucky,” he says hesitantly, and Bucky’s mouth goes dry. “I make the dinners and clean. Shine your shoes. I’d be a good —" Steve stops abruptly, going pink, and Bucky hears the word _wife_ hang silently in the air.

“I’ll… be right back,” Steve says quickly, swallowing hard. 

Bucky watches Steve run to the stove, pouring the stewed cabbage back into the pot and bending down to slide it into the oven. The skirt flows over his ankles, pearls swaying out around his neck, and he looks abnormally relaxed in the motion, almost serene.

Bucky has never known Steve to feel comfortable in his skin. He’s always stood a bit rigid, with his shoulders squared up tight by his ears, like he wants to take as little space as possible. Now his body flows easily, hips swaying as he walks. It’s almost as if he’s become a different person to fit this role, and Bucky wonders suddenly if Steve is doing all this solely for him. _You don’t like boys._ He frowns. Steve would know that isn’t true, wouldn’t he?

Steve is sweeping the counters clean with his hand as Bucky comes in, glancing up at him with a smile. Rouge is still smeared a little messily over his mouth, and Bucky reaches out to fix it with his thumb before falling short. Steve has already turned his attention back to the kitchen, wiping it down cheerfully.

Bucky watches Steve reach the far edge of the counter, the way the dress slopes in the back to expose the edge of his shoulderblades. 

“Steve,” he says under his breath, his fingers brushing over the pronounced notches of his spine. 

The hand working down the counter stills, and Steve’s breath stops short. When Steve looks curiously up at him, Bucky grins. 

“You got up and left before we were finished necking,” he says teasingly, and Steve smiles, an odd sort of laugh sounding mostly like a sigh bursting out of him. He doesn’t look like he knows what to say, so Bucky takes hold of Steve’s wrist to turn him until he’s facing Bucky fully.

“We can finish in here by the timer, if you wanna.”

Bucky doesn’t understand how he can seem so comfortable dressed like this and still look have that shy, embarrassed look on his face. “C’mon, Bucky, you don’t gotta gimme lines like that.”

“I ain’t givin’ you anything I don’t wanna,” Bucky answers back before kissing him hard, pressing him into the counter. He pulls back and runs his thumb over Steve’s face, wiping away the rouge that made it outside the line of Steve’s lips. “You—you don’t have to dress like this for me,” he says nervously, “I love you plenty in your slacks, too.”

He’s not expecting Steve to react the way he does, eyes wide as he pulls away. “I—you’re right. This is stupid. I look silly.”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I —"

“I look ridiculous.”

“Don’t say that. I didn’t mean—you look beautiful.”

Steve scoffs, pushing hard on Bucky’s chest. Bucky stumbles back easily, crestfallen, and Steve slips back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him with all the force his little arms can muster. Bucky cringes. Slamming means he wants to be left alone, doesn’t want Bucky shadowing him. Alone in the kitchenette, Bucky sighs, running a hand through his hair frustratedly. To keep busy, he takes the stew out of the oven and pours some of it into a bowl before putting it back. He tries to eat, but he only manages to pick nervously at it until dumping his bowl back in the pot with the rest of it.

Steve doesn’t come back out, and by nightfall, Bucky is forced to knock on the door. 

“Stevie, c’mon, lemme in.” He tries the knob, surprised to find it isn’t locked, and pushes inside. “Steve?” He’s expecting to see him on the bed, maybe sound asleep by now, but he doesn’t seem to be in the room at all until Bucky hears the quiet hiccupping of sobs coming from beside the dresser.

Feeling slightly panicked, Bucky rounds the corner to see Steve back in pants and a shirt, sitting cross-legged on the floor, curled over the box of his mother’s things, fingers clenched hard into the edges of the crate. 

“Oh, Steve,” Bucky whispers, sitting down next to him on the floor. “C’mere, babydoll, it’s okay.” 

Steve goes easily, relaxing his grip on the box when Bucky pulls it out of his hands. 

“It’s okay, Steve, everything’s gonna be okay.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything, and Bucky keeps him wrapped up in his arms until his quiet sobs space out into silence. 

“You hungry?” he asks gently after a while on the floor, and Steve nods. Bucky pulls Steve’s face up to meet his eyes. “Well let’s have that nice dinner you made for us then, huh?” 

Steve nods again, wiping his eyes, and Bucky grins as he helps him to his feet.

They eat in relative silence, and when they finish, Bucky starts to collect the dishes before Steve shoots up out of his chair and grabs them from his reach. 

“No!” he yelps, voice so loud Bucky pulls back as if he’s been burned. Steve frowns, sniffling. “You worked all day. I want to… let me do it.” 

Bucky nods dumbly, and Steve stacks the plates and carries them to the sink.

It takes a moment for Steve to notice Bucky hovering in the kitchen doorway. “I don’t need help,” he insists. Bucky makes an affirmative little sound in the back of his throat before closing the distance between them, leaning down to kiss Steve’s neck.

Shrugging him off, Steve says with a hint of bitterness, “You don’t gotta do that when I’m not pretty.”

The way he says it breaks Bucky’s heart, but he doesn’t let on, smiling against his ear. “Okay, I won’t,” he says, kissing him again, “Lucky for me, you’re always pretty.”

“Oh, stop it,” Steve grumbles, trying to wriggle away, but there’s a hint of a reluctant smile on his face, and Bucky holds him tight. “There’s nothing to see when I’m not —"

Bucky snorts. “You’re still the same Steve under whatever the hell getup you’re wearin’, buddy. A skirt don’t make you any different underneath.” 

Steve huffs, and Bucky kisses the corner of his downturned mouth. 

“You weren’t wearing a dress when I fell for you, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t respond to that, and Bucky isn’t sure how to fill the silence. He kisses Steve’s face again and asks tentatively, “Are you sure you don’t want any help with the dishes?” 

Steve nods, resolute, and Bucky kisses his hair. 

“All right.”


	4. Chapter 4

For the next few days, Steve wears his slacks. He seems shy about it, feeling obvious, and picks at the seams like he’d done with the skirts of Sarah’s dress. Bucky feels guilty, but is too afraid to mention it up again.

It’s been over a week when, on his walk home from work, Bucky stops when he notices a pretty pink and white hairpin on the sidewalk. It’s just a small bobby pin done up with enamel and a few rhinestones, the kind a girl might use to clip back her bangs. Stopping, Bucky picks it up and inspects it. 

It’s not damaged, and not very dirty. It must have only been on the ground for less than an hour. Bucky brushes the dust of of it and tucks it in his pocket. It’d look pretty matched up with the pearls.

When Bucky gets home the apartment is warm with the smell of tomato sauce simmering on the stovetop and Steve is sketching quietly on the couch. Bucky watches for a moment, his fingers slipping into his pocket to check that the pin is still there. He’s deliberates over handing it outright to Steve, and eventually decides against it. 

“What’s for dinner?” he asks, dropping his hand back to his side.

Steve looks up and gives him a bit of a smile. “I made spaghetti,” he says before turning back to his sketch. 

He’s proud, spaghetti is Bucky’s favourite from childhood. Bucky smiles back, wandering in the kitchen to make it look like he’s going to check on the food. He runs the pin under the sink to wash off an extra dirt and debris was on it, sliding it back into his pocket just as Steve walks into the room behind him.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asks cheerfully, and Bucky turns around, feeling somewhat cornered.

“Nothin’,” he says quickly, and Steve’s face falls. He stirs the pot filled with sauce a couple times before taking it off the stove.

“Well go do nothin’ somewhere else. I’m still getting this ready,” he says with a false sort of attitude. Bucky takes his cue and darts into the living room. Steve’s sketchpad sits abandoned on the table, a halfway-finished drawing of a house shaded by a large oak tree. 

Bucky sighs. Sarah’s house.

He takes the pin out of his pocket and places it gingerly on top of the paper where Steve will see it before going back into the kitchen, sitting at the table to stay out of Steve’s way while he chats about his day hauling crates and making deliveries.

After dinner, Bucky helps with the dishes and declares he’s going to take a bath, marching into the bathroom as Steve makes his way into the living room. When Bucky comes back out, toweling off his hair, Steve has gone back to drawing, grinning to himself. He seems lighter, at ease, smiling to himself like he’s got a secret and Bucky notices him pat his pocket once or twice.

The next day, Bucky comes home to an empty living room. He frowns, setting down his things. Steve’s sketchbook is open on the couch, several doodles of Bucky’s face that makes him smile.

“Steve?” 

He jolts at the sound of the icebox door slamming, and looks over to see Steve popping his head from around the cabinets.

“Dinner’s almost ready!” he says, a little wildly, and Bucky smiles when he notices the barrette in his sandy hair. The dress he’s wearing is light and patterned, buttoned up to the collar that still looks freshly pressed resting over the string of pearls. When Steve steps out from behind the counter, Bucky’s eyes fall to the skirt, fanning out slightly and ending just below his knees. He hadn’t seen much of Steve’s legs in those heels beneath the more modest hem of the blue dress. In this one they look elongated and dainty, somehow curvier than usual.

It’s hard not to stare. Bucky doesn’t realize his mouth is hanging open until he swallows and snaps it shut. “Can it wait?” he asks hesitantly, and Steve’s grin vanishes.

“Um, I guess,” he says, nervously touching the clip in his hair, as if making sure it hadn’t fallen out. “How come?”

“‘Cause you’re a fuckin’ peach in that dress,” Bucky answers gruffly, snatching Steve by the waist, tugging him closer. Steve lets out a pleased little squeal, and Bucky feels the tension he’s been carrying the past few days dissipate to nothing. He runs a hand up Steve’s calf, and Steve kicks him off, giggling.

“Don’t be such a pig,” he teases. “That can wait til after dinner.”

“Says you,” Bucky mutters, burying his face in Steve’s throat. “God, you even _smell_ amazing.”

“Mhm,” Steve says with mock seriousness, but his fingers twist defly in Bucky’s hair, “that’s what happens when you use soap.”

“Smartass,” Bucky grumbles, nipping scoldingly at Steve’s neck. 

Steve lets out a soft yelp, and Bucky pulls away. 

“Sorry,” he says quickly, but Steve just stares at him.

“Do that again,” he whimpers after a moment, “Hard.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. He’s given plenty of love bites before, but with Steve it just feels different. Everything does. “I can’t do it too hard, Stevie, you’ll bruise.”

Steve shakes his head. “Just a little bit, then.”

Tilting his head, Bucky takes in the look on Steve’s face. The rouge makes him look so _healthy_ , cheeks pinker and fuller than they ever get to be even in the middle of the summer. He’s smiling bigger than Bucky’s seen in ages, and all Bucky wants to do is kiss him. 

“C’mon,” he purrs against Steve’s cheek, “Dinner will still be ready in an hour.”

With a hesitant glance back at the kitchen, Steve looks like he’s going to argue, but Bucky’s already scooped him in his arms. Steve lets out a surprised little squawk, and Bucky pulls him onto the couch, shoving the sketchbook to the floor and pulling Steve onto his lap. 

The dress fans out over Bucky’s lap as Steve straddles his hips, and Bucky feels flushed and dizzy. 

“We didn’t get to do this last time,” Bucky points out, and Steve steadies himself with his hands against Bucky’s chest as Bucky cranes his neck to take Steve’s mouth in his own.

It feels like it’s supposed to. Light and careless and warm. For the first time since bailing Steve out that night, Bucky feels like things could be okay. Maybe they could really swing it. Just the two of them. Just like this. 

Steve lets out a soft little moan against Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky slides his mouth down, sinking his teeth into Steve’s throat. It’s only a little harder than he had bitten Steve before. He’s afraid to leave marks or hurt him, but Steve yelps and moans sweet and helpless in his ear. Bucky bites again, lower on Steve’s throat so he can bite a little harder. Steve always buttons his shirts up to the collar, if he leaves just a little mark…

“ _Yes,_ ” Steve whimpers, curling into Bucky as he bites down. Bucky can feel tension in his chest, and reaches out to pull Steve closer.

When Steve slides against Bucky’s lap, they both freeze. There was no way Steve didn’t feel Bucky’s cock hard against his hip. Steve swallows, and Bucky’s mouth goes dry. “Steve…” 

“I thought ahead,” Steve says abruptly, pulling back, and Bucky watches dumbly as he twists around to reach under the couch.

The sight of him this way is intoxicating. The line of his back stretched over Bucky’s lap. Bucky rolls the pad of his fingers over the ridge of Steve’s spine, reveling in the way Steve tenses under the touch. When Steve sits upright again, he looks somewhat flushed, holding the jar of Vaseline from their bedroom in his hands.

“What if I’d dragged you off to the bedroom?” Bucky asks with a glint in his eye.

Steve scoffs. “An insatiable cad like you? Please.” 

Bucky shoves him playfully before snatching the jar out of his hand. 

As he opens it, Steve adds, “Besides, I have to be here to make sure the potatoes don’t burn.” 

He’s smiling, and Bucky marvels at how easy and relaxed he seems when dressed this way, fingers curled in Bucky’s hair. He slides his hand up Steve’s skirt to tug down his boxers, and Steve shifts to kick them off while Bucky shoves his pants down his thighs. When Steve straddles him again, he fluffs out his skirt over Bucky’s lap, as if completely hiding what they’re doing. 

He smiles. “I like being able to do this.”

“Yeah,” Bucky manages hoarsely, sliding a slick finger into Steve. Steve mewls, shock crossing over his face, and Bucky realizes the change in angle must feel different. Steve seems to melt into it faster his hips working against Bucky’s hand until he pushes in a second finger.

Steve’s head falls back, his throat exposed, and Bucky leans forward to press kisses into it, his other hand cradling Steve’s head. Steve groans, and Bucky pushes further into him, pulling needy sounds from behind his teeth. 

When he runs blunt nails over Steve’s scalp, Steve whines. “C’mon Bucky… please…”

Bucky slides in a third finger and Steve keens, his head rolling forward to press his forehead against Bucky’s. His perfect little red mouth is panting open against Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky lets his free hand rest on the back of Steve’s neck, gentle as he can.

“Bucky, please,” Steve says again, his voice tense, “Please fuck me.”

Swallowing hard, Bucky nods, pulling his hand away to slide vaseline on his cock and shifting Steve against his lap. He eases into Steve as gently as he can, but gravity drags Steve onto him, and Steve’s eyes roll back.

“Oh God,” Steve whispers, his voice low, “God, Buck—I…” 

Steve looks utterly entranced, and Bucky’s afraid to move, scared he may hurt him. Steve’s fingers are light and gentle on Bucky’s chest and he shifts himself, pushing up onto his knees before easing back down.

“Fucking hell, Steve,” Bucky moans, and Steve picks up speed, whimpering. Steve nods as if Bucky asked a question, his mouth falling open around a quiet _oh_.

When Steve finally manages to drag his eyes open, they’re unfocused, dark, and Bucky cups his fingers around his cheek. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but Steve interrupts him, voice distant, “Am I pretty, Bucky?” 

Bucky nods, and Steve’s voice cracks. 

“Tell me, Bucky, please.”

“You’re beautiful, Stevie,” Bucky says quickly, peppering Steve’s face with kisses, “You really are. You’re so, so pretty, babydoll.”

Steve’s shoulders slump forward and he groans, taking Bucky’s mouth in a kiss. When he breaks away, Bucky licks his lips, tasting the thick slide of rouge. 

“I’m your girl, right?” he says dreamily, fingers trailing over Bucky’s face. “Tell me, Buck. Tell me I’m your girl.”

Bucky clenches his grip hard around Steve’s waist, sliding him up and down over his cock so that Steve falls limp in his arms. “You’re my girl, baby,” Bucky rambles, tension building in his stomach, “Just you, al—always been my best girl.” 

Steve’s eyes are on fire, and Bucky slides a hand under his skirt to grab his cock.

“My perfect sweetheart, just look at you.” Steve is practically glowing, squirming against Bucky to push into him as hard as he can. Bucky groans, trying hard to keep a hold of himself. “God, baby, you’re so—so beautiful.”

Steve whines and presses his mouth to Bucky’s again, and Bucky cries out when Steve tightens around him, come slicking over his hand. 

“Fuck— _Steve_ ,” he gasps an instant before coming into him, and Steve falls against his chest, breathing hard into his neck. Bucky takes a few seconds to catch his breath before pulling out of Steve and dragging him into his chest.

“Look at me,” Bucky says gently, tilting Steve’s chin to see his face. Steve’s eyes are bright and his cheeks pink. One half of his mouth turns up into a smile. Bucky lets out a relieved breath and kisses his forehead.

They sit wrapped in each other until Steve remembers the potatoes and jumps to his feet. They’re burnt black on the bottom, and Steve pouts miserably until Bucky assures him they’re the best meal he’s ever tasted.

That night, curled up in bed, Steve kisses him until Bucky pins his wrists to the mattress. Steve falls limp at the pressure, and Bucky licks his lips. 

“Steve?” His voice is shaky, and Steve wriggles until he can sit up enough to take Bucky’s mouth in a kiss.

“Whatever you want, Buck,” he says slowly, “I...I want…” Bucky swallows hard, and Steve watches him, quiet. After a moment, he says, “What do you want?” 

Bucky doesn’t answer, curling over Steve, the hand not holding his wrists trailing hesitantly down his throat, fanning out over his chest.

There’s a hitch in Steve’s breathing, and Bucky presses curiously into his nipple through the fabric of his undershirt. Steve jerks slightly, and Bucky does it again. 

“Th—that’s…” Steve manages breathlessly, and Bucky feels his heart racing.

“Feels good?” he says with excited curiosity, and Steve nods his head. “Jesus, Steve,” Bucky whispers, tucking his hand under Steve’s shirt to get better access, “you really are like a girl.”

“Yeah,” Steve answers distractedly, one of his legs hooking around Bucky’s waist to pull him close. 

It only takes a startlingly short time before Steve is panting open-mouthed, cheeks pink, and Bucky feels he’s warm enough to be safe pulling his shirt over his head. 

“God, Steve,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss into the center of his chest, “you’re so pretty.”

Steve purrs, fingers in Bucky’s hair. Bucky turns his head to take Steve’s nipple in his mouth, and Steve lets out a noise like a rush of air. Bucky feels a thrill at the reaction, sliding his tongue over it until he feels it hard in his mouth and turns his attention to the other.

With a yelp, Steve’s hips press suddenly into Bucky’s, and Bucky feels the unmistakable line of his cock pressed into his leg. 

“God Steve,” Bucky whispers, pulling away, and Steve whines so loudly at the loss that Bucky has to cover his mouth with his hand.

Steve’s eyes are bright and out of focus, and Bucky waits until he looks at him before asking what he already knows. 

“Are you already hard?” Steve nods, and Bucky presses his lips to his chest. “Just from this?”

Another nod. Bucky tilts his head. 

“Could I make you come like this?”

A low groan against Bucky’s fingers as Steve’s eyes roll back in his head. Bucky isn’t sure what that means. He wraps his lips around a nipple and sucks hard, letting Steve thrust helplessly against his hip. He lets his teeth bite down, just barely, and Steve screams. Bucky feels the front of his pajama pants getting damp.

Bucky has never felt so powerful. Steve has never acted so amazingly _pliant._

“You wanna come like this?” Bucky asks, mouth barely pulled away from his chest, the cool air on his wet skin giving Steve goosebumps.

Steve nods, head tilted back, and Bucky gives in to the instinct . 

“Go ahead, then.” 

Steve keens at the words, pushing against Bucky hard enough to make the bed creak as Bucky turns his attention back to Steve’s chest.

He sinks his teeth back in and gives a gentle tug. He can hear Steve babbling behind his fingers, but can’t make out the words. 

Just in case he’s asking for it, Bucky whispers, “My sweet girl,” before laving his tongue over sensitive skin again. “You’re so pretty, baby, why don’t you come for me?”

The bed whines as Steve goes suddenly rigid, and Bucky can feel come soaking quickly through Steve’s pajamas. His heart is hammering against his chest and he glances up at Steve, who he doesn’t think he’s ever seen looking so content and relaxed. He sits up to press a kiss into the corner of Steve’s mouth.

“Take off those PJs, Stevie, I gotta clean you up.” 

Steve groans, but wiggles around with a sense of intention as Bucky gets a rag from the bathroom and and douses it in soap and water. Steve grumbles as Bucky cleans him off, but smiles when Bucky steps out of his own pjs and pulls them over Steve to keep him warm.

“Aren’t you gonna get cold?” Steve asks sleepily, but Bucky shakes his head, pulling Steve as close as he can manage.

“Nah, I’ve got you,” he mumbles, placing a kiss behind Steve’s ear. Steve is asleep before Bucky suspects he even heard him.

The next day is Saturday, and Bucky wakes up to an empty bed and the smell of eggs. Lumbering groggily into the kitchen, he smiles when he sees Steve still wearing Bucky’s pajama pants, belled out around his feet as he prods at eggs in a pan.

“Morning, Sleepy-head,” Steve says cheerfully, glancing over his shoulder to see Bucky wiping his eyes. “Hungry?” Bucky nods mutely. He’s never been much of a morning person. He doesn’t start talking much until after he’s been up at least a half hour. Steve scrapes eggs onto a plate and sticks them in front of him, kissing the side of his head. Bucky smiles, reaching up to ruffle Steve’s hair.

“S’this for?” he asks thickly, and Steve shrugs.

“You don’t usually sleep late enough for me to treat you to breakfast,” he admits shyly, sitting down with his own plate. “I just wanted to do somethin’ nice.”

Bucky takes a bite, watching Steve eat for a moment before asking, “We should go down to the pier.”

“We can’t afford the pier,” Steve says vaguely, but Bucky just frowns. He’s not technically right, they could scrounge the money together, but if Steve’s using money as an excuse, it tends to mean he has other reasons he doesn’t want to talk about.

For a moment, Bucky worries that Steve is getting tired of being treated like a dame. Maybe he doesn’t like it as much as he thought he would, and Bucky suggesting they go on a low-key date was the final nail in the coffin.

“We can just walk the beach,” Bucky offers, the free alternative in hopes of a deeper explanation. 

Thankfully, Steve smiles at him. “You don’t gotta take me on dates, Buck. I’m already yours and all.”

The way he says it with such an exasperated fondness is comforting. Bucky smiles at him and scrapes the last few bits of egg onto his fork. 

“Well, what do you wanna do, then?” he asks, mouth full. “I don’t wanna just coop up all day.”

Steve makes a face, considering, and then grins. “I have an idea” 

He disappears into the bedroom, and while Bucky dumps the plates in the sink he wonders which dress Steve is going to wander out in, but instead Steve comes out in old tattered longjohns and a wifebeater that looks like it may have been Bucky’s.

He tosses Bucky the roll of boxing wrap and grins. “I ain’t gotta be your girl at every turn, do I?”

If Steve’s feeling healthy and happy enough to spar, Bucky isn’t going to turn him down. “Nah,” he says, tearing open the tape absently, “Pals first and foremost, just like always.”

Steve’s taping up his wrists and hands on the roof of their building when Bucky shoulders his way through the access door, a bundle of small towels in his under his arm. It’s still early spring but there isn’t a cloud in the sky and the steady rays of the sun are warming up the rooftop planks enough. In the winter the two of them would sometimes truck up to one of the gyms up in Dumbo and no one would look at Steve wrong after he sparred with Bucky a few times, but it still he tires easy and is more comfortable away from the scorn.

Besides, neither of them are prizefighters.

Bucky sneaks a glance at Steve, still intensely focused on aligning tape between his knuckles. He looks only slightly like he’s an escapee from Rikers, dressed in his old long john bottoms and what Bucky is sure now is one of his old A-shirts, well-past worth saving and making for excellent dirty work garb. Steve’s wiry shoulders flex and wriggle under his skin and he stretches out his arms overhead, making a fist, testing his tape job.

“You ready over there, Jack Johnson?” Bucky calls, plopping their sweat rags down next to a basin of water. 

“Well if someone would stop primping in front of the mirror and get over here so I can mess up his prettyboy face.” Steve jabs back, hopping from foot to foot to warm up.

“There’s that famous Rogers’ loudmouth. It’s a wonder they let you walk the streets with that thing.”

“You were saying all kinds of nice things about my mouth the other night.” Steve raises his eyebrows in challenge bopping Bucky on the arm once before sinking into a fighting stance.

“Well that’ll teach me to tell you nice things.”

He casts a taunting eye dead at Steve before stripping his out of his pullover sweater, leaving him in just an undershirt. So disrobed, like this, it makes the differences between their bodies that much more apparent. Sure, Bucky is bigger, taller, but he has been forever, and still is when dressed to the nines, but his body is powerful in a way Steve’s is not. His own arms are coiled and firm from years working the shipyards, hauling crates and making deliveries. Girls had admired and cooed over Bucky’s strong arms since they were teenagers and now it was Steve swooning over Bucky’s hands on him.

Even through his dirty cotton shirt it’s easy to pick out Steve’s spine, his ribs, the carving shadow of his collarbones, the cords of his throat. His arms tremble when carrying groceries. He faints in the heat. 

His exposed shoulders, his arms, compared to Bucky they’re puny but sinewy, and Steve’s got that famous meaner fight in him. Bucky hopes for that fight now. He wants Steve to put up a fight, show that resilience he’s had all their lives. He wants this deranged affair with Steve to work out for something.

Preferring to be barefoot, Bucky toes off his shoes and circles around to his side of their “ring”, a flattened cardboard pallet they scavenged from the Navy Yard.

“First to three okay?”

“Yeah, you think you’ll make it all the way to three?” Steve rolls his shoulder, tossing the hair out of his eyes.

“Yeah and watch it, I’m coming for you with that right hook, you better remember your guard or I’d hate for something to happen to that pretty mouth of yours, since you’re so attached to it.”

Steve leads in with a jab and cross which Bucky manages to sidestep. Bucky might be quick, but in the ring Steve is quicker. Bucky regroups his stance and they size each other up for a moment, edging closer, daring the other to open up their guard first. Steve tucks his head, smirking up at Bucky like a brat, rocking from foot to foot. There’s that look in his eye when he gets determined about something, like an old dog with a bone. 

Bucky pulls his right arm back aiming a blow at Steve’s shoulder but Steve ducks and weaves away from his swing, landing a solid jab on Bucky’s ribs. Countering with a hook, Bucky knocks Steve on the side before they break apart.

Bucky grimaces. It smarts as he exhales. Steve’s bony knuckles caught him right between the ribs.

“Christ, pull your punches, Stevie, you’re gonna break something.”

Steve grins, fire in his eyes, and swats at Bucky’s ear. “Make me.”

Bucky feels that challenge in a place he shouldn’t. He huffs, wiping sweat from his brow. “Zero-one?”

“Zero-one,” Steve confirms, bumping his fists together.

They circle again, trading swipes, working up a sweat. It’s good, sparring together, Bucky thinks distantly. He reads Steve’s fighting posture, arms up, nimble on his feet, sizing up Bucky similarly for gaps in his guard. It feels familiar, regular, and nothing has really felt that way since Sarah died. They can still be like that, boyhood friends, like they always had been. Maybe they can just be this other thing as well. 

Steve’s hair is falling into his eyes, a thin sheen of sweat on his skin and it knocks the wind out of Bucky to realize Steve fights like he fucks. Whole-hearted and shameless.

They aren’t keeping score that closely, but after a bullseye right hook from Steve and an overpowering counter from Bucky, they’re decidedly even at two rounds each. Steve is winded and he waves Bucky off for a minute while he regains his breath. Plunging one of the rags into the bucket of water and draping it over this neck, he stretches his shoulders and lets cool water drip down his back. They start back up rather slow on the third round until Steve misjudges a step and nails Bucky in the jaw with a full force uppercut, splitting his lip and busting his knuckles. Bucky curses and leaps back, hopping up and down in pain.

“Goddamn it, Steve!” Bucky yelps, spitting blood onto the rooftop. “That was a fuckin’ dirty hit and you know it.”

“Well I didn’t mean to, now did I?” Steve yells back sucking on his bleeding knuckle, “It ain’t my fault you got such a hard head!”

“I think you knocked a tooth loose, you animal.” Bucky snatches up a rag to dab blood from the corner of his mouth, “Don’t even act like you didn’t mean it.”

“I didn’t!”

The tape on Steve’s knuckles is turning bright red and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of blood over his chin.

“I can patch you up,” Steve says, voice light, more teasing than it really should be. With a glint in his eye he adds, “if you need me to.” Bucky eyes his scraped knuckles, unsure if Steve doesn’t really feel any pain in them, or if he’s just ignoring it for Bucky’s benefit.

Either way, his busted lip is definitely in need of some tending to, and it’s been a long while since Steve’s been the one to fix up any of Bucky’s scrapes. 

“This was your plan all along, huh?” he says with a wink, and Steve scoffs.

“You wish. I don’t gotta be that cunning to land a shot on you, Barnes. I hit you fair and square.” He’s smiling, but he takes Bucky’s wrist in his hand to pull him back inside. Bucky follows easily, his other hand rubbing dramatically at his jaw.

“Yeah, square is right. You got a mean right hook for such a scrappy punk.” 

Steve looks over his shoulder to stick his tongue out, but doesn’t have anything else to say.

Once back downstairs in the apartment, Steve pushes Bucky into the tub, bandaging up his own knuckles and gripping from the other side of the bathroom door while Bucky washes his face. 

“I still say our match isn’t finished, Rogers. That was a cheap shot, I don’t hafta count it.”

He expects Steve to snap back with Bucky being a sore loser, but when he doesn’t say anything, he pokes his head from behind the door and frowns. The doorframe is empty. Bucky rinses the soap from his body and grabs the towel, shutting off the water. 

“Where’d you run off to?” he calls nervously out into the apartment.

He’s running the towel over his hair when Steve bounces out of the bedroom, changed into his mother’s heels and a short white dress that fans out at his hips and ends at his knees. There’s lace on the sleeves and collar, and it all makes Steve look somewhere between a saint and a flirt.

“Go sit down,” Steve tells him snappishly, “I’m gonna fix up that mug of yours.”

Bucky smirks. “Shouldn’t I get dressed?”

“I don’t see the point,” Steve answers over his shoulder, walking into the bathroom to retrieve antiseptic and bandages. He says it with such bland seriousness, Bucky can’t help but laugh. When Steve comes out of the bathroom, he’s frowning. “I told you to go sit down.”

“All right, nurse Rogers,” Bucky says flippantly.

He doesn’t realize what he’s actually said until the words are already out of his mouth and it’s too late to take them back. Steve’s face falls, momentarily stunned, but the shock fades away before any other emotion takes its place. After a moment, he tilts his head. 

“Well?” he says quietly. “Are you gonna listen to me or not?”

Bucky stumbles over to the couch and sits back as straight as he can. If Steve’s going to pretend it didn’t happen, then so is Bucky. Steve sets his collection of cotton balls and bandages on the cushion beside him and crawls onto his lap. 

Steve leans in close to his face and inspects his lip closely for a moment before Bucky feels it’s safe to point out, “I already washed it, really, so —"

“Shh,” Steve hisses, cutting him off as he turns to retrieve supplies from the couch cusion. He dabs peroxide onto a cotton ball and blots it over his mouth. When Bucky yelps at the sting, Steve smirks at him. “Baby,” he chides quietly, and Bucky frowns.

“See if I bandage you up next time you get in a fight, then, if you’re gonna make fun of me.”

Steve doesn’t look very threatened. He kisses the corner of Bucky’s mouth, barely avoiding the cut. “I’m sure,” he says against Bucky’s skin, and Bucky’s hand finds itself skating up Steve’s leg.

“I mean it,” Bucky says in a voice that doesn’t sound as if he means it at all. “Next time you wanna stand up to some meathead twice your size, you’re on your own, pal.”

Steve’s breathing a little hard, and as Bucky’s hand creeps higher up Steve’s thigh, he realizes he doesn’t feel the hem of boxers where he should. 

“Steve?” he asks shakily, “Are you…?”

Steve’s mouth flickers into a smirk. “I uh, I didn’t see the point.”

Bucky’s mind goes momentarily blank, the only thought echoing in his head is the memory that the Vaseline is back in the bedroom after the other night. He scoops Steve off his lap and hoists him back to the bedroom as fast as he can.

The Vaseline is sitting on the dresser, and Bucky isn’t sure how it got there but he’s not in the mind to ask questions, dragging Steve up to the dresser and bending him over it. Steve yelps as his elbows hit the wood, and Bucky hesitates, waiting for Steve to say something.

He doesn’t, remaining silent as he shifts to spread his legs a little further against the dresser, and Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. 

“You don’t have any idea what you do to me, do you?” he asks, voice ragged. Steve unscrews the lid off the jar of Vaseline and sets it next to Bucky’s hand resting on his hip.

“I think I have some idea,” he says smugly, and Bucky hikes up the skirt to Steve’s hips, holding the handful of fabric so that he can press his hand into the small of Steve’s back.

“Knew you fuckin’ hit me on purpose,” Bucky says, slicking up his fingers.

Steve laughs a little breathlessly. “I really didn’t, I just— _oh_ ,” Steve forgets himself for a moment while Bucky slides his fingers inside him, “I just… thought I’d make the best of it.”

“God,” Bucky says, laughing a little hysterically, “do you ever shut that smart mouth?”

“Don’t pretend like you want me to,” Steve answers back, teasing dazedly, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever been more in love with Steve than he is right now. He works his fingers in quickly, listening to the tone of Steve’s quiet little noises until he feels safe enough to slick up his cock.

He bows over Steve’s back, kissing up his spine as he eases in slowly, nipping gently at his shoulder when he’s reached the hilt. Steve is panting hard into the dresser, nails digging into the wood, and Bucky kisses his neck. He reaches up and runs a hand through Steve’s hair. 

“I love you,” he reminds him quickly, like an afterthought, a reminder to grab a jacket before going out in the middle of winter. 

Steve looks over his shoulder, eyes glazed, and Bucky thrusts in hard, causing Steve to mewl loudly and drop his head against the dresser. When Bucky moves again, Steve whines, “ _Yes._ ”

It’s like electricity in Bucky’s bones. He moves in earnest, and Steve can’t keep quiet, moaning helplessly as his nails scrape for purchase in the beaten wood of the dresser. His feet arch and his ankles tremble. Bucky had always been so careful before, so cautious of injuring him, but Steve’s never reacted like this. Desperate and needy, broken little sounds unstoppable as they fall from his mouth.

Bucky is still holding back, trying hard to make sure Steve doesn’t slam too hard against the drawers, and that his grip isn’t too tight. But he lets himself rock Steve into the wood, holds him down with a little more force.

“Harder,” Steve begs, nearly out of his mind. “Please harder, Buck, I need it, I—I want…” he can’t seem to form a full sentence, babbling helplessly as Bucky rams into him. 

When Bucky picks up the pace, Steve cries out so suddenly that the hand Bucky has in Steve’s hair clenches hard, and Steve squirms back against him.

“Yes, Bucky, _please,_ ” he howls, writhing back into Bucky’s hips with all the strength his trembling legs can manage. Bucky watches Steve twist in his grip and all he wants is to give him everything.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” Bucky hisses into his neck, leaning down to thrust more steadily into Steve, who keens, flat against the dresser, relief sagging his body as Bucky slams into him. “The fucking sounds you make, God you’re—you’re so…” Bucky can’t focus on words, it’s getting too hard to think past much more than the way Steve’s body feels under his.

The dress opens in the back, a row of plain black buttons running from the bottom of Steve’s spine up to neckline. For a moment, Bucky wonders how Steve got into it without his help, realizing he must’ve just pulled it over his head, not difficult without a girl’s chest. Without thinking, Bucky starts to unbutton them, entranced by the helpless little noises of confused half-protest coming from Steve as the dress slips off his back.

“C’mere, babydoll,” Bucky pants into his skin, pulling Steve up flush against him and wrapping his arm over his shoulder to slide over his chest. Steve moans as Bucky slides his fingers over his nipple, and Bucky pushes Steve tight against him, pinning him to his chest as he rolls the nub in his fingers.

Steve has forgotten every word that isn’t Bucky’s name and _yes_ , rutting back into Bucky’s hips as best he can. Blood is roaring in Bucky’s ears by the time he hears Steve’s choked-off cry of “ _I’m…_ ”

By some miracle, Bucky knows to gather the dress, pushing the skirt away from Steve’s cock before he wraps his hand around it. 

“It’s okay, baby,” Bucky says in a rush, “Won’t let you get anythin’ on your—pretty white dress.”

Steve presses with his arms against Bucky’s chest, head lolling onto his shoulder as he fucks Steve through his orgasm. Bucky holds off his own just long enough to watch Steve’s eyes go wide and glassy as he shudders before coming himself, falling forward back into the dresser as gently as he can manage.

As they catch their breath, Bucky strips Steve out of the dress and pulls him into bed, curling against him to soak up the afterglow until Steve insists he has to start dinner. They lay in silence for a moment, the only sounds their slowing breath, when Steve looks over at Bucky, his eyes fever-bright and a small smile on his face. His breath steadying, he leans forward and kisses Bucky deeply before curling back up on his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

When Steve starts going back to classes, he spends less and less time in Sarah’s clothes until he stops changing into the dresses altogether. Bucky figures it’s an improvement, since Steve is going out during the day instead staying cooped up inside waiting for Bucky to come home from work. Steve doesn’t say anything about it, so Bucky doesn’t either. If Steve’s feeling good enough to go back to his art, Bucky would rather that than anything else.

As the weeks pass, however, Bucky starts to notice that Steve doesn’t seem much better off than before. If anything, he almost seems to be slipping back to where he was when Sarah first died. He’s irritable and moody, and his sleeping pattern starts getting too erratic to tell if he’s sleeping too much or not enough.

Bucky still comes home to Steve working in the kitchen, wearing his slacks and threadbare undershirt, bare feet on the linoleum. Bucky’s never sure if he’s allowed to bill and coo over him like this. Now and again he’ll chance it, come up behind Steve stirring a large pot of spaghetti sauce and kiss his neck, but it’s always a gamble. Sometimes Steve will welcome it, tilt his neck into Bucky’s kisses, smiling to himself as Bucky wraps his arms around his hips.

But without the dresses, that’s not always the case, and lately it’s been more often than not that Steve will jerk away from him, snapping, “Quit it, Bucky. I ain’t your damn wife.” It stings, and the more Bucky does it, the rarer it is that it’s appreciated, and the angrier Steve gets, so he stops. Bucky would rather wait for Steve to come to him than be pushed away.

So Bucky waits. And Steve doesn’t come to him. For two weeks, they sleep in separate beds. Bucky wonders if it’s over, if that’s the last of this crazy affair between them, never to be spoken of. He’s too afraid to ask for Steve to sleep in his bed with him, and with the weather getting warmer, he has no excuse for him to do so.

Bucky’s almost sure it’ll never happen again, half-convinced it never happened at all, when he comes home to Steve in the dark blue dress he’d worn first, the pleated skirt fanning out above his ankles. The table’s set with food already on their plates, but Bucky ignores it, throwing his bag down on the floor and pinning Steve to the wall.

It’s been so long Bucky has a momentary panic, as if he’s not sure what to do. Like he doesn’t remember Steve’s body like the back of his own hand. 

“Steve,” he murmurs against his neck, hiking his legs up to wrap around Bucky’s waist.

“Bedroom,” Steve answers, clasping his hands behind Bucky’s neck. Bucky carries him back without a second thought, dropping him onto his bed. Steve lets out a soft _“oof,”_ and Bucky can’t even bother to turn on a light before crawling into bed on top of him. They’ve both missed this, too much to really think of anything to say. They’re both silent as Bucky works Steve open as quickly as he can.

“Go ahead,” Steve says, and it feels somehow like it’s been too long and too soon at the same time. When Bucky hesitates, Steve repeats, “Go ahead, now, now, it’s fine.” 

Bucky can’t argue. He only wants what’s best for Steve.

The bedroom’s dark, dim light pouring in from the hallway, just enough for Bucky to see the curves of Steve’s face as he bites his lip to keep quiet. Details blur as he watches Steve underneath him. Sensory mind taking over, focusing on the worn cotton of the dress soft under Bucky’s hands as he bunches it higher over Steve’s hips. 

He’s so slight, Bucky had almost forgotten. He can feel Steve’s ribs shifting with each thrust even through the fabric. His thin legs wrapped around Bucky’s waist, delicate hands clenched tightly—too weak, he’s too gentle—into the meat of his shoulders. _Steve needs him_ , the thought comes to mind so suddenly that it momentarily blindsides him, echoing in his head. 

Bucky has to take care of him. He can’t let anything happen to him. He’d rather die himself than let Steve get hurt, but he can’t do that either. Steve needs him here. Always here. Without Bucky to take care of him, Steve could wilt away, just like she did.

The name that falls from his mouth is meant to be Steve’s, but it feels different on Bucky’s tongue, and everything freezes so abruptly it takes him a moment to realize why.

_Sarah._

Steve is gaping at him. Even in the shadow of the bedroom Bucky watches him turn pale. 

“Shit,” Bucky croaks, unable to explain himself and suddenly, irrevocably, paralyzed. Time doesn’t move at all for several seconds, and then Bucky feels his body shift, sluggish and heavy and beyond his conscious control.

Steve blinks, his face turning away. He looks staggered, horrified, eyes cast down, lips parted. He doesn’t react when Bucky pulls off of him. 

“Shit,” Bucky says again, but Steve says nothing, staring past a spot on the floor cast in the yellow light from the doorway. Bucky scrambles to his feet, but Steve doesn’t even seem to notice Bucky is still in the room. He sits up slowly, crossing an arm over his chest and curls his fingers into his shoulder.

Bucky’s vision swims, and when he lets himself blink he realizes it’s from tears in his eyes, humiliated and terrified. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a third, “Shit,” cracking over the lump in his throat. 

Before Steve has the presence to respond, Bucky turns on his heel and stumbles out of the bedroom, shutting himself into the bathroom and slumping to the floor, his back pressed hard against the door in case Steve comes to check on him.

He won’t, not after Bucky left him despondent and alone. Bucky should be checking in on him, making sure he’s all right, apologizing over and over and hoping against hope that Steve will forgive him. 

He should go back to Steve, apologize, say anything, but he can’t. He can’t move. _Coward._ His face is wet and his head is pounding, and he just wishes he could sleep, fall alseep this instant and escape this moment. He drops his head onto his arms and sighs.

It’s hard to tell how long it’s been. It feels like hours when there’s finally a knock on the bathroom door. It makes Bucky feel like scum, that Steve came to check on him before Bucky could will himself to go back to Steve, but a sick, desperate part of him is relieved he doesn’t have to see Steve’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says before anything else, and his voice is so ragged from crying and disuse that it comes out like a whisper, cracking around the edges. He clears his throat to try again, but he’s too ashamed to speak a second time, words caught behind his teeth.

Finally, he hears Steve through the door. “Bucky?” 

He sounds like he’s been crying, too, and Bucky feels like such a monster. How dare he let Steve feel this way? And leave him alone through it? Steve deserves better than this. Steve deserves better than him.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says again, voice louder this time. Steve doesn’t respond instantly, and Bucky feels his skin crawl while he waits for him to say something.

“Did you love her?”

Leave it to Steve to jump right into the real questions. He’s never been one for gentle phrasing and beating around the bush. But Bucky isn’t even sure how to answer that. Of course he loved her. He loved her like his own mother. Different than that. Stronger, maybe. His own mother never paid him so much attention. Not like Sarah. Sarah loved him, and was proud of him, and knew he would take care of her son.

_God, what would she think now?_

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is timid now, afraid of the answer, or maybe more afraid of the idea that there won’t be one. Bucky drops his head back against the door. He’s not sure when he started crying again, but he feels tears cool on his face when fresh air hits him.

When Steve speaks again, his voice is closer, like he’s dropped to the floor, too. “Did—do you want her instead?”

Bucky’s on his feet before his brain tells him to stand. The door swings open to Steve curled on the floor, still in his mother’s dress, tears smeared over his face. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” he says, like this is his fault somehow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make this harder, I just wanted… I wanted—I don’t know. I don’t know, it was almost like I could have her back. I didn’t think it would hurt anyone if I just—if I ....”

Bucky stands there, aghast and silent, watching Steve curl in on himself in a way he’s never seen before, sobbing openly into his hands with a dress draped too-big on his frail shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, “I’m so sorry.”

“Steve,” Bucky manages finally, “God, Steve, shut up.” 

Getting mean usually snaps Steve out of whatever it is he’s saying, but this time they only seem to make it worse, Steve’s cries turning shrill and loud as he recoils as much as he can without getting to his feet. Bucky drops to his knees and wraps around Steve’s body, flinching when he feels him go tense.

“I love you, Steve, it’s always been you. I only want you.” He can’t tell if Steve can even hear him over how loud he’s sobbing, but Bucky keeps talking, unable to stop. “I love you, Steve, I love you. Just you. I’m so sorry, God, I’m so sorry..”

“It’s okay,” Steve says through his tears, which makes it seem like it isn’t at all, “It’s okay if you wanted her, she was—I’m not —"

“Steve, stop it,” Bucky whispers, pulling away to look him in the eye, but Steve is too curled into himself to meet his eyes.

“I’m not like her. Pretty and— _God,_ I’m sicker than she ever was.”

“You’re _not,_ ” Bucky says loudly, and the finality of his voice at last has the effect Bucky’s been waiting for and startles Steve into silence. “Jesus, Steve, you’re not. She’s _dead._ ”

Steve goes quiet and still, hiccupping a little. He says nothing, staring at Bucky in a way that’s hard to tell if he’s horrified by the words that left Bucky’s mouth or simply waiting for him to continue speaking. 

Taking a chance, Bucky adds, “She’s dead, and you’re not. She was sicker than I’m—I’m ever gonna let happen to you. Do you understand me?”

“You can’t promise that. You know it,” Steve says finally, his voice raw and soft. “I couldn’t save her, you can’t save me. I’m gonna die too, Buck.”

“No you’re _not_ ,” Bucky spits out, vehement, but Steve just shakes his head.

His hands wring in Sarah’s dress, and he stares down at the skirt as if he’s only just realized he’s still wearing it. “Maybe not now. Next year. The year after that. I wasn’t even supposed to make it this far. You’re gonna have to bury me, too.”

The slap rings out in the quiet of the room, and Bucky hasn’t even realized he’s moved until he feels the sting in his palm. Steve barely reacts. The slightest flinch, as if he’d been expecting it.

The idea is almost worse than the fact that Bucky actually did it. 

Shame sinks into his bones. He’s never done anything like that before. Even the few times he’s physically hurt another man it was only ever to protect Steve. He stares horrified at Steve’s face before looking down at himself, as if to make sure it’s his own hand that left the red blotch across his cheek.

“I…” Bucky says, his throat closing with panic and tears. “I — I’m sorry, I…” 

Steve only blinks. The back of Bucky’s neck is prickling with guilt and his insides go cold. It feels worse that Steve is still wearing his mother’s dress, almost like hitting a woman.

Sick crawls up Bucky’s throat. He swallows hard, trying to dislodge the thought. He wants to apologize again, but instead he only manages, “I can’t.” 

Steve tilts his head in confusion. 

“I can’t do that, Steve, I—please, don’t make me do that.” Bucky’s throat is tight and he keeps talking in hopes that it’ll stop him from crying. “Please. I can’t—it can’t be like that. You can’t die.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, watching him stoically, and Bucky realizes as he loses his battle with his own sobs, that they’ve somehow switched roles. 

“I’ll take care of you,” Bucky chokes, “I’ll keep you safe, please, it won’t—it won’t be like that, Steve, please.”

He doesn’t expect a response, but Steve nods. “Okay, Buck,” he says quietly, and Bucky lets out a relieved breath, loud and desperate against Steve’s neck as he gathers him in his arms. Steve’s hand is on his face, wiping gently at his tears, and Bucky realizes he’s shaking. “Okay, Buck. It’ll be different. I trust you.” 

He doesn’t, Bucky knows that. He doesn’t think any differently than he did a moment ago, but the fight is gone from him.

Bucky clings to him, afraid if he lets go Steve will wither away before his eyes, pulling him close enough to kiss the red print on Steve’s cheek. 

“I’m sorry. Please, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have hit you. I don’t know why I did that— Christ, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I know, Bucky. It’s okay.” Steve sounds flat and tired, letting himself be cradled against Bucky’s chest. Bucky is breathing heavy against his tears, kissing helplessly at Steve’s neck and face. Steve’s fingers are cold like death on Bucky’s grief-hot skin. A reminder that Steve’s right, no matter what either of them say.

“Stop it,” Bucky says, as if Steve is arguing, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away, holding it down toward the floor. Steve’s breath catches, and Bucky moves on autopilot, rolling over and pinning him to the hardwood floor of the hallway.

Steve’s eyes widen just barely, and he falls back easily, letting Bucky crawl over him. Bucky tastes tears when he leans down to kiss him, briefly unable to tell if they’re Steve’s or his own before remembering Steve has long since stopped crying.

“I’m gonna take care of you, Steve,” he insists breathlessly as he breaks away, “You’re my girl, remember? I gotta take care of my girl.”

“Yeah,” Steve answers, voice not even above a whisper, watching dazedly as Bucky scrambles to push his skirt up over his chest. “You always—always take care of me.” 

He meets Bucky’s eyes then, hand twitching, hesitant to touch him again. 

“Don’t you, Buck?” he adds gently, wincing when Bucky slides fingers back into him.

Bucky nods, his vision blurring with tears. “Always, Stevie,” he says, gasping, “Always, I’ll always take care of you. You’re my girl. My good girl.” 

Steve nods, his eyes drifting shut as his mouth falls open. Bucky cups his face, watching him breathe. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you, Steve. I’m gonna keep you safe.”

“I know, Bucky,” he says, the corner of his mouth twisting into a smile as he tugs at Bucky’s wrist to pull it free, shifting closer to his hips. “You always do.” 

The tone of his voice is off. Too quiet. Condescending. Bucky hates it, and takes Steve’s mouth in his own to stop him from talking.

It’s different than it had been earlier, in their bed. Slower, tortuous. Bucky’s gentle, holding Steve’s face in his hands as he moves, eyes never leaving his. They’re quiet save for their breathing, heavy and erratic in between kisses.

As he gets close, Steve latches onto Bucky’s hair, letting out a soft, keening whine. “You’ll take care of me,” he says airily. “You always—always take such good care of me.” 

Bucky feels something possessive curl up his spine, picking up force as he thrusts into Steve. He nods, folding over Steve to nip at his neck, and Steve’s hands both fist in the hair at Bucky’s nape. Bucky shivers, whines. He’s so close and Steve is trembling against him. It’s been too long and they both need it now more than ever. He screws his eyes shut against the abrupt return of tears, but it doesn’t stifle them. Steve doesn’t say anything, but Bucky knows he can tell. 

Both his hands tight in Bucky’s hair, Steve pulls him down until Bucky’s face is nestled into the curve of his throat. 

Steve’s lips brush warm against his temple an instant before whispering, “Ma would be proud of you, Bucky.” 

Bucky lets out a soft gasp, his orgasm taking him by surprise. Steve whines into his ear, hands clenching hard in Bucky’s hair. A moment later Bucky feels come hitting his stomach, and Steve goes limp in his arms.

Neither of them break the silence. Bucky is afraid to move. When Steve finally disentangles himself, Bucky gets a good look at his face, starting to swell slightly where Bucky had hit him. The bottom of Bucky’s stomach falls away, and his hand moves on its own to wrap around Steve’s wrist.

They still haven’t said anything, and Bucky’s voice sounds too loud in his ears when he clears his throat. 

“I — I should...get you some ice.” He nods toward Steve’s cheek. He balks slightly when Steve chuckles at him, distanced and off.

“I thought you said I was on my own the next time some meathead clocked me.”

He’s smiling. He means for it to be a joke. Bucky knows that. He _knows_ , but his entire body goes rigid, dropping his hold on Steve as if his skin had burned him. Steve’s smile falls, and Bucky can’t meet his eyes. 

“Buck…”

“I’m just — I’ll get you some ice.”

“Hey —” he reaches up to grab Bucky’s arm, but Bucky tears away from him, jumping to his feet and racing to the kitchen. Just take care of him, he tells himself as he hears Steve gets to his feet and clamoring after him. “Bucky, stop. _Stop,_ I was — I was...”

He sounds like he’s having trouble breathing, which makes Bucky freeze. The only way to make this whole situation worse is if Steve started getting all nerves again because of some shit Bucky pulled after he tried to make a joke. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve tells him as Bucky turns to face him, “I didn’t mean — I’m —”

“I hit you,” Bucky says. He means something else entirely. Means to apologize. Means to make it up to him. Means to tell Steve that everything’s fine. But all that comes out, even the second time he tries, is “I _hurt_ you.”

Steve shakes his head. To Bucky’s horror, he scoffs. “No, you didn’t.”

“Your face is all red,” Bucky snaps at him, “don’t tell me I didn’t.” 

Bucky knows he means to say he’s been hurt worse, but for that only makes Bucky more ashamed. He’s supposed to be the one fixing up Steve after a fight. He’s never supposed to be the one to knock him down in the first place. Sarah would never forgive him for this.

It’s not until Steve’s face changes that he realizes he said his last thought aloud. 

“Yes she would,” he says, his voice so gentle Bucky feels as if he’s some sort of spooked animal in a trap. “We roughhoused lots as kids, Buck. Your damn elbows used to leave me with shiners all the time.”

“That’s different,” Bucky says finally, not letting himself remember the harmless way they used to roll laughing in the mud. “Accidents. I — I’ve never… I _hurt_ you.” His eyes are trained on his feet. “I never want to hurt you. I’ll never do it again.”

Despite his honesty the words sound false, and Bucky’s panicked when he looks up to meet Steve’s eyes again.

Steve is watching him with an undeserved expression of absolute forgiveness on his perfect, angelic face and Bucky feels entirely unworthy. Standing there in his mother’s dress hanging only slightly too-big at the shoulders, one hand crossed over his chest to toy anxiously with the collar while his other hand hangs awkward and hesitant between them.

It’s familiar. Through the blur of his tears Bucky recalls Sarah taking a similar stance the split second after Steve would do something foolish that would land him on his ass. It’s too much, and Bucky stumbles back against the wall, crumpling to the floor as Steve rushes toward him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats frantically as Steve hovers over him, one hand wrapping around his fingers and the other nesting in his hair. “I let you down. I’m sorry.” He can’t even tell if he’s talking to Steve or the brief flash of Sarah he’d seen an instant before his legs gave out underneath him. “I’m so sorry. _I let you down._ ”

He pulls his arms over his head, jerking his hand out of Steve’s grip, but Steve just drops to his knees, kissing Bucky’s hair with far too much understanding. Bucky can barely hear Steve whispering over his own sobs. 

“No,” he says softly, “you’ll never do it again. I believe you.”

It’s not what Bucky deserves. It’s not what Steve deserves, either. But Bucky is selfish, grabbing onto Steve and dragging him into his lap, burying his face between Steve’s neck and his shoulder, tears soaking through Sarah’s dress.

He’s shaking, his grip on Steve too tight, frantic. He’s afraid to leave bruises, but Steve doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s quiet and stoic against Bucky’s sobs. Placing a kiss on Bucky’s temple, he drags light fingers through Bucky’s hair, shushing him warmly. 

The apartment is silent as Bucky’s sobs die down. Steve waits patiently for Bucky to peel away from him, instantly reaching up to brush the patchy wetness from Bucky’s face. 

“I trust you,” Steve says again. 

It’s the first thing he’s said in nearly an hour, and his voice sounds surprisingly raw for not having been the one to cry. Part of Bucky wants to tell Steve he shouldn’t, that he doesn’t deserve forgiveness for any of this. The greedier part — sickeningly larger part — only nods and pulls Steve into a kiss.

They stay curled up on the floor together until Steve is struggling to keep himself awake, pressed against Bucky’s neck. With a tisk, Bucky shifts to try and shake him awake. They should get to bed, but they never even ate dinner. It’s not good for Steve to skip a meal. 

“Steve, are you — are you hungry?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says without answering. “I just wanted —”

“Don’t… don’t worry about that, alright?” He tucks a lock of hair behind Steve’s ear. “Are you hungry?”

Steve shakes his head. His voice sounds flat. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Please stop.”

Steve goes silent, for a while. When he gets up, he doesn’t look at Bucky. He dusts off the pleats of his skirt and walks away. Bucky reaches for him, but when Steve shakes off his hand, Bucky lets him go. As Steve shuts their bedroom door behind him, Bucky crawls out onto the fire escape for a smoke.

He doesn’t smoke often. He wishes he could, sometimes, but Steve chokes from the scent left on his clothes every time he does. He has a feeling he’s in the clear to do it now. Steve won’t come anywhere near him tonight, most likely.

But as the thought goes through Bucky’s head, there’s a _clank_ of another body climbing onto the fire escape.

He glances back to see Steve in a shirt and slacks, and his heart sinks. “Get back inside, Steve.”

“Wind’s blowin’ the other way.”

Bucky tisks, and Steve shifts to sit as close as he can manage. They don’t speak, and Bucky keeps his eyes on the alley below. He gets a few more puffs of his cigarette in before he hears Steve trying to stifle a cough and stubs it out.

“It’s late,” Bucky says, giving Steve a gentle nudge. “Let’s get to bed.”

They lie next to each other that night, in the same bed, spooned close but each fully clothed. Bucky listens to Steve breathing throughout the night, running his fingers lightly through his sandy blond hair.

“I love you.”

It’s quiet, even in the pitch black silence of the room. Steve clears his throat.

“I know, Bucky.” Silence stretches for another few minutes before he adds, “I love you, too.”

Steve has never said it back, before. He never had to for Bucky to know. Bucky doesn’t know for sure what it means that he says it now. When Bucky kisses his neck, Steve shifts away from him, just enough to notice.

The next morning, Bucky wakes up alone. He leaves the bedroom to see Steve in the kitchen, wearing slacks and a button down shirt. There’s a pot of coffee on the counter, but Steve is eating a banana with a knife; pointedly a breakfast for just himself. When Bucky enters the kitchen, Steve pretends he hadn’t been watching him from the breakfast table and drops his eyes to the fruit in his hands.

“Coffee’s on.”

Bucky glances at it and nods. He’s not sure what to say. He’s hungry, but Steve isn’t going to make him anything. Bucky would rather he didn’t, anyway. He swallows and picks an apple out of the fruit bowl on their counter. Better than nothing.

The morning is spent in almost perfect silence. Later in the afternoon, Bucky forgets himself and runs his hand through Steve’s hair as he wanders around the back of their sofa. Steve tenses and ducks out of reach, and Bucky rips his hand away.

“Sorry — shit, I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Steve answers flatly.

For a moment, Bucky just stands there. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for. Maybe for Steve to accept his apology, but he doesn’t. Steve sits frozen for a while before taking a long, deep breath. Bucky steels himself, but Steve just turns back to his sketchbook and draws in silence.

The quiet is smothering him. Bucky sighs. “Steve —”

“It’s fine, Buck.”

It isn’t. Bucky wonders if it ever will be again.

They don’t talk about it. At all. Bucky wants to, the guilt of it keeps him up at night, but he doesn’t have the right. Steve keeps his mother’s pearls wrapped in a coil on the top of the dresser, leaving them untouched until Bucky can’t stand it. He picks them up and moves them, leaves them on top of Steve’s sketchbook on the end table while he’s up getting a glass of water. He pretends not to watch Steve when he comes back, holding the glass, looking down at the pearls as if they’d gotten up walked into his seat of their own accord.

After a moment, he pockets them. He doesn’t sit back down, instead disappearing into their bedroom. Bucky sits patiently, hopeful, but when Steve comes back out, he’s still dressed in slacks and a shirt. Bucky looks at the dresser when they go to bed that night, but the pearls aren’t there. He waits until Steve leaves for class the next morning before searching for them, and finds them tucked in the back of Steve’s sock drawer.

Confused, Bucky leaves them there. That’s where they belong now, he supposes.

The next day, Sarah’s dresses are packed away in a crate. Steve catches him standing over them in their bedroom, and Bucky takes a deep breath. “This is — this is my fault, isn’t it?”

Surprisingly, Steve doesn’t seem to be expecting that. He knits his eyebrows together and frowns. “What?”

“This whole — I shouldn’t have… God, I shouldn’t have done any of this. Your ma had just died.” Steve squares his shoulders, but Bucky cuts him off. “Your ma had just died, and you were so — you were so damn upset, I just — I took advantage of you.”

Steve scoffs. “You couldn’t take advantage of me if you tried, Barnes.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Would you —”

“Shut up!” Steve stamps his foot, and Bucky freezes. “I ain’t some — I’m not stupid. I know…” he stops and seethes. “I knew what I was doin’.”

“But — Steve, listen. It — I shouldn’t have —” He fails to get a sentence out. He doesn’t know what to say. He just wants this to be over. “I’m not sayin’ you didn’t know what you were doin’, I just — I shouldn’t have let you.”

Raising his eyebrows, Steve echos back, “ _Let_ me?”

Fuck. “I don’t mean it like that. I just don’t want this to…” Bucky’s not sure how to finish that thought. There are so many things he doesn’t want. He doesn’t want this to ruin Steve, to make him too ashamed to find someone else. A girl, a wife. He doesn’t want this to make him think he’s a fairy or a pervert. He doesn’t want this to stop. All those thoughts weigh heavy on his tongue. 

He shrugs. He’s too afraid to speak any of them. Steve glares at him, feeling babied.

“It’s not — right.” He looks down at the crate of dresses, and Bucky follows his gaze. “I ain’t a dame, Buck. And ma’s not…” 

It’s too much to say it, so Steve doesn’t. He takes a deep breath. 

“It’s not right. I ain’t a dame.”

Bucky wants to say that it doesn’t matter, but Steve’s too stubborn to care what Bucky thinks is right and wrong. Instead, Bucky tries, “Steve, I’m sorry. What I did — Hell, what I _said,_ I didn’t mean to —”

“It’s —” Steve cuts Bucky off abruptly, but he doesn’t really have anything else to say. It’s not fine. He swallows. “It ain’t about that, Bucky.” Bucky doubts that, but he doesn’t say anything. “I shouldn’t… be doin’ that. It shouldn’t feel good.”

“Steve — it’s not wrong. It— It’s not hurting no one.”

Steve sighs. He looks up at Bucky pointedly, and then back at the crate. 

“It’s not right,” he says again.

“It’s _fine,_ Steve,” Bucky insists. It’s stupid to say, and Steve lets out a hollow laugh. “I mean, it — what does it matter? If it feels good and makes you happy — I’m… I want to make you happy.”

With a click of his tongue, Steve falls silent, staring at the floor. After a while, he shakes his head.

“I can’t make you do this, Bucky.”

“You’re not _making_ me do nothing, Steve —” Bucky starts, but Steve talks over him.

“We can’t do this anymore.”

It still sounds like guilt. Like he’s forcing himself harder than he should. 

“Steve…”

Steve moves past him to pick up the crate of dresses, shoving it with effort under his bed. Bucky falls silent as he watches him. Steve’s done before Bucky can decide if he should ask if he needs help. The back of his neck itches. Steve doesn’t get to his feet for what feels like several minutes.

“I’m gonna make stew tonight,” Steve says pointedly. Bucky opens his mouth to agree to it, but Steve adds, “Would you like some?”

It feels like a blow to the chest. Clinical, a long step back. It’s not automatic, anymore, that Steve plans his days around Bucky. They’re still friends, but that’s all. Roommates. Swallowing, Bucky nods, and Steve follows suit.

They should say more. Bucky wants to talk about this. He wants to know Steve’s all right. He wants to know they’ll be okay. But Steve isn’t looking at him, and Bucky can’t force words past his tongue. It’s Bucky’s fault that this is between them now. He deserves this.

But Steve doesn’t. It can’t be fair to him. “You should be able to do what you want, Stevie.”

Steve tisks, fidgeting. He’s never this quiet, this awkward. Especially never around Bucky. Finally he says, “Stuff ain’t always that easy, Buck.”

And just like that, it’s over with. Steve only wears his own clothes, and neither of them acknowledge it again. Bucky’s afraid to even touch him, and when he tries, Steve acts as if he never has. At night, they sleep in their separate beds.

After about a week of the silence, it starts to seep back to normal again. Steve goes back to preparing dinner for the both of them in the evenings for when Bucky comes home from late shifts. He’s always in his slacks and a shirt, but he still makes Bucky’s favourites. Eventually, the awkwardness fades. They’re almost like they were before Sarah’s death. Friendly, like they used to be.

Steve stays late at his classes, some nights. Bucky doesn’t question it. When he comes home, he shows Bucky the things he works on, and smiles wide when Bucky compliments them. _This is swell, Stevie. Really beautiful. You got a real talent._

They’re all landscapes and models. Steve never draws Bucky anymore, but that doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t.

It’s been over a month since Steve put his mother’s things away. Bucky watches the ceiling in the darkness. He thinks Steve may be asleep when he ventures, “I’m always gonna love you, Steve.”

It’s quiet for so long that Bucky assumes he’s confessed it to deaf ears. They don’t talk like this anymore. Not since the night Bucky ruined everything. They’re not anything anymore, not like that. Friends again, only now with a terrible shared secret that’s never going away.

“Bucky…” Steve says finally. 

It takes Bucky by surprise that he’s awake after all, and he jumps, sitting up a little. Steve doesn’t move. Bucky watches the still line of his body softened just under the threadbare quilt and waits for him to say something else. For a long time, he doesn’t. Bucky falls back onto his elbows. Just as he’s about to give up and roll back over, Steve clears his throat.

“I’d be your girl if I could.”

That sideswipes him. He shakes his head. It’s not fair.

“You — you can.”

“We’d get married at St. Paul’s, and I could — I could raise you some babies.”

Chest tight, Bucky flinches. He turns his eyes to his knees and stares down at himself. He drops back against his bed and wraps his arms around his middle. He doesn’t know what to say, but the thought drops out of his mouth before he’s even formed it. 

“You’d be a good mother.”

Silence follows. After a moment, Bucky hears soft hitch of breath. It’s possible Steve’s crying; that Bucky caused it — again. He doesn’t say anything else. He’s afraid to make it worse.

“Steve —” There’s a twist of sheets, Steve turning to face away from him. Bucky swallows. He hates this. He just wants to make Steve happy again. “I — I hope our kids’d look like you. They get my face they’d be shit outta luck.”

“Don’t — don’t be stupid, Buck.” There’s a hint of a laugh to his voice, and Bucky feels the tension in his chest ease, just a bit. “Though they better get my smarts or they’ll never amount to nothin’.”

Bucky laughs — too-loud and vaguely hysterical around the lump in his throat.

“Fuck you, Rogers,” Bucky mumbles gamely. 

There’s a quiet, smug _hmm_ on the other side of the room, and then, a moment later, “Bucky?”

It’s tentative now. The tears are gone from his voice but so is the humor and attitude.

“Yeah?”

“We’re — we’re gonna be okay, y’know.”

The lump is suddenly back in Bucky’s throat. He’s forced the thought into his head a thousand times since everything’s gone wrong, but he was never able to believe it in his own voice. Here, now, as Steve whispers it in the quiet of their room, it sounds possible. They’re going to be okay.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, reaching up to drag the back of his hand over the tears on his face. “Yeah, I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Warsaw" by Dessa


End file.
